


On Love's Tail

by Cecero



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Also Occasional Tasteful Smut, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, Fluffy Tail, Giantess - Freeform, Humor, Love, Marriage, Rated T for Rare Violence and Some Sexual References, Sweet Jesus Priscilla is gorgeous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2018-12-24 11:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 41,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12011655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cecero/pseuds/Cecero
Summary: Normally, knights and dragons are natural enemies, battling over a beautiful damsel in distress. But what if the dragon IS the damsel? Follow an adorably mismatched couple as they journey through Lordran in search of adventure!Cross-posted from Fanfiction.net





	1. Chapter 1

A nightmare unending. That is what this world is. To many, the picturesque spires and blanket of snow would make this seem like a serene paradise, where the warriors of the north might spend eternity after they expire. One undead warrior, however, saw through the deception, the way one might look at a clear sky and know a blizzard would soon approach.

Grotesque abominations, hellbent on halting his progress, had relentlessly attacked the Chosen Undead. Through snow and ice and claw and fang, through poison and flesh and steel and blood, he pressed on. By this point in his journey, he had been conditioned into a constant state of single-mindedness; nothing exists but battle.

Still, this place threatened to slow him, for the sheer grit of the monstrosities that abounded unnerved him.

And so he persevered, finally reaching the tower where he now stands. His armor shines like newly minted coin; though cumbersome to move through, the snow at least served to clean his plate and mail.

The undead warrior approaches the gate of opaque fog, taking a deep breath and pushing through as he raises his swords.

Only to foolishly lower them upon clearing the fog.

A woman, two and a half times his size, stands in the center of the open tower.

Long silver hair flows down her back, blending in with her pristine coat. She wields a large scythe, but the Chosen Undead feels no malice from her; her posture is loose, peaceful.

A long grey-white coattail hangs... The warrior gasps. Not a coattail, no, but a true, honest to goodness tail!

He sheathes his blades, and the sound of sliding steel draws her attention. She turns around, and he fights to keep his knees from collapsing underneath him. Her face is as pristine and as perfectly sculpted as the finest porcelain, lightly framed with fur in triangular patterns. On her brow lay several small horns. Her size and inhuman features would seem frightening and monstrous on anyone else, but amazingly, they only served to make her infinitely more alluring than any human woman.

The Chosen Undead knew at that moment that no human woman could ever capture his gaze again. A single glance upon this beautiful creature and millions of years of instinct vanished immediately, all desire to find a human partner gone, like the last patch of snow on a warm spring day.

Her full, delicate lips part, and her sweet voice rings through the air.

"Wherefore doest thy that from which we speak hang ope, weary traveler?"

The Chosen Undead blinks.

"Art thee no more brain than stone? thou art trespassing in mine own home! answ'r me betimes!"

Once more at a loss for words, the poor warrior can only stare as she barrels on.

"Doth thee endeavor to speaketh english, 'r art thy wits as absent as thy tongue?!"

The Chosen Undead finally manages to speak. "Um... What?"

Her eye twitches, and her tail slaps the ground. "I ASKED IF YOU SPEAK ENGLISH, YOU DAFT KNAVE! IT APPEARS YOUR ARMOR IS THE ONLY BRIGHT THING ON THAT SIDE OF THE ROOM! Ugh!" She shouts, her tail thumping furiously, sending tufts of snow flying about.

The undead reels back in shock. In the span of a few short seconds, he was enraptured by her, only for her to insult him in a bout of rage. Though the undead warrior is a man grown, his heart tempered in the fires of battle, his eyes water, and he grows dangerously close to moaning in anguish.

The woman notices his posture, clearly showing that he is devastated by the exchange.

"Oh... I- oh, my... I-I'm sorry!" She stammers, hurriedly shuffling towards him, her bare feet gliding across the snow. Her scythe falls to the floor, momentarily forgotten. "I shouldn't have... I just haven't talked to anyone in so long and..." She trails off, reaching a large hand out to touch the man's shoulder.

He looks up, staring at the face of the large woman.

"It's alright. But prithee, pray tell for a fortnight, why doth thou locute thine tongue in such a forthwith manner of concurrence?"

Her mouth opens slightly in suprise before her calm demeanor dissolves into a fit of laughter. She doubles over, her tail swishing furiously in mirth, knocking over the wary undead.

She wipes tears from her eyes. "I think most of those words do not mean what you think they do," she gasps, regaining her composure. He rubs his head sheepishly.

"As for your question, a lady must conduct herself in a noble manner, even for a baseborn knave such as yourself," she continues. The undead is suprised at how easily they settle into a rhythm, and how her teasing was so welcome.

"Baseborn?" He huffs indignantly.

"It means-"

"I know what it means," he interrupts.

An awkward silence settles over the two befor the undead raises his hand in greeting. "Hi."

She blushes. "Hi," she replies shyly.

"Would it be alright if i asked your name?" The Chosen Undead shuffles his feet nervously.

"Priscilla."

"Priscilla," he repeats in awe.

"And yours?"

"Saer," he replies, his eyes never leaving hers, though at this range he has to crane his neck to do so.

She tucks a strand of pale hair behind her ear. "What brings you to the painted world of Ariamis, sir Saer?"

"My legs," he replies.

Silence falls between the two as Priscilla stares at him flatly.

"W-well, upon clutching a peculiar doll I was drawn here," he backpedals.

"I see..." As quickly as their banter had come, it vanishes just as quickly, each acutely aware of each other's nervousness.

Saer shivers. He had had nary a rest since his arrival to this hostile kingdom, and his armor was not made for such a frigid climate.

"Miss Priscilla, might it be alright for me to rest here for a short while? The world outside can be most dangerous, and I would like to face it at my best," he asks, sweating in anticipation of the answer.

She nods.

Saer quickly sets about gathering wood for a fire. Though damp, it catches easily with the aid of pyromancy. He starts to strip out of his chilled armor, only leaving his smallclothes remaining. Unbeknownst to him, Priscilla observes him closely out of the corner of her eye. Once he is finished, she sweeps away the snow in front of the fire.

Saer sits, and she takes a seat opposite him.

"So," he starts. "Do you live here all the time?"

"Yes," she replies, not volunteering any more information. "What about you? What cause do you have to don such heavy scales?"

And so he regaled her with tales of his journey, his cause, and his curse. She ooh-ed and aah-ed at the battles, gasped in all the right places, and by the time the sun dipped low in the sky she was leaning forward, enraptured, her tail swishing furiously. Saer would grasp his sword and demonstrate manoeuvres he used to fell his foes, all while Priscilla applauded vigorously. He would pantomime his many deaths, falling to his knees with and cursing the gods while Priscilla shook with laughter.

By now the sun had set and a deep chill set in, the fire doing little to stave of the cold.

"Well, I suppose I should bed down for the night, lest I freeze and become part of your décor," Saer says, yawning.

Priscilla nods. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Till the morrow, Saer."

He wraps his cloak around himself, crawling into his fur-lined bedroll. Unsiprisingly, it does little to warm him. The cold bit deeper than he thought possible, chilling his very bones. Even on his visits to the north as a young man, he had not experienced a chill such as this.

A soft voice draws him out of his reverie.

"Would... W-would you like to lay with me? The cold in this land pierces through the skin of all normal men."

Saer's heart skips a beat. Even if the offer was purely for warmth, it still made him giddy with glee. To think the arduous fight to get here would yield such a spectacular reward!

"M-my profound apologies," Priscilla says upon not hearing an answer. "I was out of turn."

"NO! no. I was just suprised," Saer exclaims. "I will. Thank you."

Crawling out of his bedroll, he pads over to her, his bare feet crunching the snow. He pauses once he reaches her, unsure of where to take his place. She rolls over to lie on her back, indicating where he might lay.

The both of them are bright crimson. Priscilla, because she is a maiden devoid of company for years; Saer from the cold and proximity to the giant beauty.

He crawls upon her stomach, his head beneath her chest and his thighs at her hips. Upon laying down, he sucks in a breath.

Soft. So soft. So wonderfully, amazingly, unbelievably soft. He gives an involuntary moan of contentment. "So soft and... And so warm," he sighs. As if in a trance, he wraps his arms across Priscilla and buries his face in her fur.

"Eep!" She jumps, suprised at the sudden contact. Such an action would be unexpected and exciting under normal circumstances; Priscilla had been alone since childhood, and when she extended the offer, she hadn't considered the pleasurable repercussions.

Oblivious, Saer continues rubbing his face into her fur. As he wiggles in closer, her fur encircles him, so that only his back is exposed to the cold. Priscilla trembles, fighting the urge to throw him off and curl up in a corner. It's not like she doesn't want him there, but after so many years of being alone this contact makes her nervous and skittish.

Saer shivers, the cold still biting through his thick cloak. It baffled him how anything could live here; his lips are chapped, his are eyes dry, and sweat would freeze upon his face.

He shivers once more, unsure of how long he will last before succumbing to the cold. The constant movement and flow of adrenaline during battle had kept him from becoming a handsome (in his opinion) icicle. The real danger, ironically enough, is when you are out of battle.

He flinches as the moonlight is blotted out and his back is pressed into Priscilla's fur.

"Mmph!" He writhes around instinctually, pushing on the... Tail?

Oh.

The tip of her tail curls up, and one of her large fingers pokes him softly on the forehead. "Scaredy-cat," she teases.

Saer grumbles, unable to keep a saccharine smile off of his face. Now completely covered in pillow-soft fur, he can feel his hands and feet beginning to warm, pins and needles shooting through them. Once more he lets out a sigh, not bothering to hold it back. During his travels throughout his life, Saer has slept on stone, hay bales, feather beds and cotton beds, and even an oddly comfortable giant bag of beans in the hull of a trading galley. Yet none of them even came close to this.

"Priscilla... Will you be my bed from now on?" He asks, momentarily punch-drunk from the comfort (as one would expect after sleeping on the ground since their Un-death day.)

Her jaw drops, and she struggles to gain her composure. "Wha- Um... Y-you want-"

Before she can finish, Saer grabs her tail, wrapping his arms and legs around it while the tip flails, whapping him softly on the head. She emits a noise halfway between a shriek and a moan, shivering.

Now comfortably situated, Saer rubs his cheek against her tail, closing his eyes.

All at once his exhaustion rushes to him, and he begins to mumble as he falls asleep.

"Priscilla..."

"Mm?"

"In the morning... Please leave with me," he mumbles.

She covers her mouth with her hand, and slowly, unbidden, tears begin to well up in the corners of her eyes. As a young girl, her aunt Velka had read her human tales of myths and magic, of adventures and excursions, of love and lust and knights in shining armor. Velka had always said that while they may not be good for much, humans could always make a good meal and a good tale. (And good consorts, but Priscilla had been much too young to understand what those were.) She had never dared to dream that someone would trudge through the icy land to whisk her away from her prison, let alone that they would have armor straight from the stories!

"Yes," she says, voice quivering. "I shall."

She knew no more was needed.

So Priscilla and Saer drift off to sleep, dreaming of the outside world, and each other.

And fluffy tails, in Saer's case. Lots and lots of fluffy tails.

T.B.C.


	2. Emergence

The midmorning sun shines down on the painted world of Ariamis, warming the faces of two unlikely companions.

They stood at the edge of the world, a broken bridge with a swirling fog bank below. Priscilla had already packed what few possessions she had; a book, a brush, and her scythe slung across her back.

"Well," says Saer, "we just jump down? That's it? "

"Yes," she replies. "Since you have the doll, the gate shall unlock for us."

He looks down at the doll. It is a pretty little thing, with long white hair tucked into a bonnet. It is dressed with immaculate detail, clad in a brown shawl with a long black skirt.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Comments Priscilla.

Saer sighs. "You know, I kind of miss your fancy-talk. It made me feel as if I were a lord at a high court."

Priscilla snorts. "If you learn to understand it, then I shall speak it. There is no sense in it if you would only stare at me like a shiny buffoon."

"A handsome shiny buffoon," Saer corrects her.

She pauses. "...My apologies, a delusional shiny buffoon."

"Aww..."

They both walk towards the ledge, pausing at the precipice. Priscilla holds out her hand, and Saer takes it, pleasantly suprised.

The moment he does, however, she plucks him up as a child would a toy, flinging him off of the bridge. He passes through the cloud bank and Priscrilla takes a deep breath, jumping down after him with a shriek of glee.

Saer tumbles from the portal, landing painfully on his back. He lies there, stunned.

Above him, the clouds swirl and churn, opening to spit out his beautifully giant companion. Instead, however, it seems to spit out another cloud. How peculiar...

The cloud tumbles toward the ground, dissapating as it nears. The last bit of fluff flies off, revealing one very heavy looking crossbreed. Saer doesn't move, hypnotized by the sight of Priscilla's tail flying through the air. "That tail will be the death of me one day," he whispers.

It turns out that day is today.

Priscilla waits at the entrance to the portal, gaurding the mass of souls that Saer had left when he perished. She wrung her tail through her hands, feeling terrible for causing Saer any kind of pain. The clouds swirl once more, and Saer falls through, rolling as he hits the ground.

Priscilla rushes towards him, enveloping him in a great big dragon-hug.

"Saer! Imsorryimsorryimsorry!" She pants, pressing him against her. "I shouldn't have thrown you, it's my fault, please forgive me, are you alright?!" She squeezes her eyes shut, cradling him against her chest tighter and tighter, until...

CRACK!

'Well,' thought Saer, his face pressed against Priscilla's chest and fading away after his back was broken. 'If ever there was a good way to die, it's this way.'

"I'm telling you, it's okay," Saer says. He is desperately trying to comfort Priscilla, who kneels, weeping, with her knees together and feet apart.

"I-It's not okay!" She gasps between sobs.

"How many souls did you lose?"

"Thirteen..."

"Thirteen...?

"...Thousand..."

She wails afresh. Not able to bear seeing her like this, Saer grabs her tail and curls up on her lap. She squeaks, misery forgotten.

"It's okay," he whispers. "That's a small price to pay for a bed, blanket, and companion, all rolled into one."

"O-oh. B-but why hath thou grasped mine tail?" She asks, lapsing into old-speak from anxiety.

Saer smiles. "You stopped crying, didn't you? And do I really need a reason?" To emphasize, he squeezes her tail.

"Mm! M-may Th-thou perhaps cease thine actions? M-mine tail is S-s-s-sensitive."

"I would," chuckles Saer, "but I'm afraid I can't understand you." He gives it another squeeze, settling into her lap. Though he had woken mere hours ago, contact with the crossbreed's soft, warm fur was threatening to pull him under like a large, fluffy siren.

"Just consider this your apology," Saer sighs, before drifting off to sleep once more.

Sighing, Priscilla picks him up and sets off. While Saer could flit between the bonfires at will, she, who was not undead, could not. So, she travels on foot, walking through the imposing architecture of Anor Londo. She whips her head this way and that, amazed that there could be so much space in the world. Merely peering over the edge of the bridge would set her head to spinning!

She walks through the snowy streets, past the bodies of silver knights, Drang sellswords, and all manner of hostile creatures. She gasps, not from revulsion, but awe that Saer could best so many powerful foes. She looks down at him nuzzling against her shoulder and smiles warmly. For such a powerful warrior to let his guard down around her like this... She feels connected to him, like she can see a side of him no one else can.

The grand archives loom in the distance, massive and imposing. Priscilla's neck has started to ache; never before had she been surrounded by so many marvels. She had vague memories of traveling through Anor Londo to reach her painting, but they could never do the city justice.

The unlikely pair reach a bonfire overlooking the entrance to the grand archives. Priscilla yawns, sweeping the ground clear of dust and dirt with her tail.

She lays down, eyes drooping, lulled into a stupor by the heat of the bonfire. Though she could stay warm in even the harshest of winters, she still relished the feeling of the heat on her face while staring into the dancing flames.

Though she had had a deep sleep mere hours ago, she had seen and experienced so much that she felt compelled to rest again. For so many years, the only sight she had seen was the ethereal, snowy lands of her painting, her only company beings that lacked speech.


	3. Caught

The silken crossbreed and her companion rise as the sun begins to set, bringing a chill to the land. Sær sneezes.

"Surely a chosen undead warrior would not succumb to a mere cold?" Priscilla asks, half jokingly.

"I don't know," he replies. "I have not strained myself in such frigid weather since I awoke as the Chosen Undead."

"Then you shan't strain yourself further," she replies, picking him up as a child would a toy.

"Priscilla! I can walk! I do not need to be carried about like some wretch! I will not have you carrying me through the Archives with nary a hand free to defend yourself!"

"You do not need to be carried, yet you shall be, for I wish it," she replies. "I have spent quite enough time alone, so I would hold you regardless of health. Besides," she chuckles, "You are such a tiny thing. Even in your mail, your weight is but a pittance! 'Tis not unlike carrying an unsightly log of oak."

Sær pauses, slightly struggling to understand her cadence. "Wait... Unsight-mmph!"

Priscilla breaks into a trot, pressing his face to her fur. Not a day outside Ariamis, and she is already beginning to comprehend the stubborn foolishness of males her aunt Velka had told her of.

The Duke's Archives are as magnificent as she remembers, even if it appears smaller. Priscilla awkwardly clambers through a small door, nearly crushing poor Sær in the process.

Not much later, her bare feet strike a splinter, and she instintually grabs it with both hands. Sær plummets to the ground like a shiny brick.

As Priscilla walks through a particularly dark part of the archives, she quietly gives thanks that she has Sær to embolden her spirit. She clutches him to her chest tightly, constantly checking for danger. While she may have been used to the creatures in Ariamis, they were peaceful. And kind. Well, aside from the occasional murder here and there, but no one is perfect.

Meanwhile, a certain chosen undead is dealing with a bit of a bittersweet problem.

Sær is frantically flailing, his face pressed into a peculiarly soft part of his large, fluffy companion. He needs to escape, quick, lest he lose even more humanity. His lungs screaming for air, he frantically taps Priscilla's ribs, but she is so focused on the archives that she doesn't notice.

Sær sighs, or he would, if there was any air left in his lungs. Steeling his nerves, he presses his hands against her sizeable chest, his hands sinking in slightly.

Priscilla lets out something between a squeal and a moan, her hands flying up cover her mouth. Sær nearly falls, managing to hang on to one of her arms.

She sets him down and rounds on him angrily. "T-Thou durst to touch mine busom? Thou mayst hath at least aske-"

The rest of her outburst goes unsaid, for she sees Sær on the ground, panting, his face a brilliant shade of blue.

After several minutes of tears, apologies, and painful hugs, Sær clambers up to sit on her shoulder, both smiling warmly as they enjoy each other's company.

Until Sær gets knocked off by a roof beam.

The Duke's archives are massive, so much so that even Priscilla marvels at their size.

"There must be Millions of books! Oh, can we read some, can we?" She asks Sær, tail wagging furiously.

He smiles apologetically. "Unfortunately, no. It's to dangerous to let our guard down here. I couldnt live with myself if you were hur-"

TING!

Priscilla whips around, swinging her scythe off of her back and clean through an undead crystal soldier sneaking about, it's bones cut in half with a clinking sound. Sær clings to her head, the movement threatening to throw him off of his fluffy perch.

The soldier crumples, and the countless souls he had taken flow from his core into Priscilla.

"You were saying?" She says sweetly, tilting her head and batting her eyelashes. Sær gulps; from restrained attraction, or her power, which vastly exceeds his own? He cannot say, though he has a sinking feeling it is immense amounts of both.

"I was saying... It is about time to break our fast. Let us read while we eat."

Priscilla smirks. "Thought so."

They each eat ravenously after poring through several books, having not eaten since their departure from the land of Ariamis. The kitchens had been stocked full, no doubt to feed the scholars that the Duke allies himself with.

Priscilla sits with her legs to the side, so her tail does not get caught betwixt her and the cool stone floor. She holds an entire leg of mutton, consuming great pieces of it as her tail slowly wags in delight.

Sær happily tucks into his food, consisting of baked potatoes laden with gravy, relatively fresh greens, and roasted chicken with a succulent homemade sauce, with a pint of high-quality mead to wash it down.

Priscilla had had many years to perfect her cooking skills, seeing as it is a mite difficult to prepare a meal as a skeleton trapped in a wheel. Her experience showed; it was easily the best meal he had enjoyed in his entire life.

He swallows the chicken in his mouth. "This tastes amazing, Priscilla," he gushes. "You would make an excellent wife one day."

She drops her roast mutton and it lands on the floor with a splat. "Thou, th-th-th-th-thou w-w-w-w-wishest to m-m-m-m-m-m-m-"

"Priscilla? Are you alright?" Sær moves towards her, but she scrambles backwards, curling up into a rather fluffy ball, her tail tucked betwixt her legs.

"I am n-not ready," she gasps, hyperventilating. "Th-thine desires shall

b-b-be requited not, for though methinks I am well and truly smitten with thou, I am afraid of what mayst come."

Sær nods, even though she cannot see him, and he doesn't understand a word.

The most he can gather is she assumed he wanted to betroth her. That was not his intention, though he can't help but smile foolishly as he imagines married life with the crossbreed. A life full of broken bones and deadly cuddles, to be sure, but a pittance to pay for such a wife.

"It was an expression, Priscilla. I meant that when or if you choose to be wed, your spouse would be glad to have you," Sær says sheepishly.

Priscilla pokes her head out from her fur. "So thou dost not wish to wed me? Thou fancies me not?"

Sær gulps, turning scarlet. "No, well, I... That is... I meant it in jest, but that is not to say I don't want to wed you. Any man, especially myself, would be aglow with joy to wed you. I mean..." He sighs, realizing he is only making things worse.

"So you truly do fancy me?" She regains her composure enough to speak normally.

If Sær wasn't a human tomato before, he was now. Despite having had a bedwarmer a few times in the past, he had never felt the twinge of joy in his heart the bards sing of. Indeed, being a fisherman's son was not a situation ripe with suitors. He would travel between ports with his father, peddling their scaly wares to great success. Oft times they would never visit a port again, dashing any of his hopes of betrothing a maid there.

But with Priscilla... He had immediately been captivated. The thought of a buxom wench cannot even stir his loins; It, and his heart, only desires Priscilla. The way her head shakes when she laughs, how her tail would twist her hair when she was nervous, even her temporary lapses into old-speak only served to ensnare him more.

Priscilla tilts her head, confused at his silence.

"I, I... I..." Sær gathers his courage, standing up straight and gazing into her vertical pupils.

"I do."

Her eyes widen, and her mouth flits between gaping in shock and smiling.

Sær smiles. "-Eth. Thine fluffy visage and angelic demeanor hath peirced mine heart betimes."

She tents her fingers in front of her smiling mouth.

"You learned old-speak for me!"

"Just that bit," he admits with an embarrassed grin.

"But," says Priscilla, sadness clouding her beatiful features. "I am-"

"Be quiet," Saer snaps.

"Wha-"

"You were about to voice some trite nonsense about me taking a human lover, that you are but a crossbreed, and some other absurd reason as to why we shan't be together," he huffs.

"How did you-" Priscilla starts.

"Because I have fallen for you," he interrupts. "In more ways than one." He lapses into an embarrassed silence.

Priscilla giggles. "You are as red as a tomato."

"I suppose I am."

She holds her arms out to him, and on her face, the warmest smile Sær has ever seen. "Come," she beckons him.

"Please don't kill me this time. I don't want to wait to cuddle with you."

She titters. "Hurry, you foolish tomato."

He is overjoyed to oblige, leaping into her waiting arms. The two embrace fiercely, their size difference not mattering to either in the slightest.

The two drift off, lulled to sleep by the large meal they had eaten before their exchange. They both sigh blissfully, wriggling into each other to close any bothersome gaps betwixt them.

In his sleep, Sær dreams of only one fluffy tail.


	4. The Knight and his Dragon

The newly formed couple walks down the quiet halls, padding over books covered in a thick layer of dust. Sær sits on Priscilla's shoulder, facing behind her so that he may deal with any enemies from the rear with his bow. Priscilla's tail has snaked up her back and curled around his waist, caressing his back.

The little resistance they encounter throughout the archives is dealt with quickly. Sær never even has time to loose an arrow; Priscilla cleaves their foes in half faster than he can blink. Sær shudders, glad she hadn't fought him back in Ariamis. He would have stood no chance.

Each time Priscilla cleaves through another foe, Sær rewards her with a kiss on the neck. By the time they reach the fourth floor, her face is flushed and her tail is beating a staccato rhythm on his back. He reaches back and strokes it, paying close attention to where she likes to be touched.

She gives a satisfied sigh, nuzzling her cheek into Sær's ribs.

The odd pair slowly make their way through floor after floor, steadily climbing towards the Duke's chambers. Sær clears his throat.

"So, Priscilla..."

"Yes, darling?"

Sær starts. "D-D-Darling?!"

She gives him a puzzled look. "That is what couples call each other, is it not? That is what is told in the books I read. Do you not wish for me to call you as such?"

Sær gulps. "N-no, that's not it. I was just taken by suprise, is all. Anyway, I just wanted to ask what you would do for fun in Ariamis. I figure we could learn more about each other, since we have time."

Priscilla blinks in suprise. "Fun... Well, I did rather enjoy vanishing and scaring mister Jeremiah. He would fall and struggle to get up because of the ridiculous crown of his!" She giggles. "I would spend all day cleaning and grooming my fur... Hmm, let's see..." She pauses, lost in thought.

"Though I suppose I never had any real fun," she says sadly. "The inhabitants of the painting were barely lucid... And The Painted Land is a dreadfully dreary place, even if it is beautiful. Aunt Velka would occasionally visit and bring me things, but she stopped coming after my four-and-tenth birthday," She sighs.

Sær listens quietly, horrified. He knew that living in such a place wouldn't be riveting, but to think she had been this lonely...

He slides down her back to stand on the base of her tail and wraps his arms around her middle. "I'm sorry that this is all I can do," he whispers. "We'll have all the fun in the world, you'll see. I promise."

Priscilla chuckles. "You stole that from The Night's Regalia, you liar."

Sær chuckles sheepishly. "It's the only book you brought from Ariamis, so it must be your favorite. Of course I'm going to read it! After all you're my..."

Priscilla cocks her head. "Your?"

Sær's face turns scarlet as he sinks into her fur to hide his embarrassment.

"My... My... Darling," he mutters. His face feels like it's about to erupt into flames.

RRRRRR.

Sær's ears perk up.

MMMMRRRRRRRR~

Was she... Purring?!

Her back rumbles, lightly vibrating his face.

She wriggles from head to tail, her hips shaking back and forth as it wags happily. Sær clings tightly to her so he isn't thrown off. Her tail curls around his waist and pries him off her back. She gives a mighty heave and tosses him up and over her head, effortlessly catching him in her arms. She stares down at him, beaming with a giddy, serene smile.

Sær's heartbeat skyrockets. Priscilla is staring at him lovingly, her face getting closer and closer. Her lips part, glistening as they inch closer to Sær's. Their eyes lock on to each other. Her vertical pupils are hypnotizing, causing everything else to fall away. The light catches the scales on her neck, framing her face with a shimmering light.

Their lips touch, and they kiss clumsily, neither one caring about their difference in size. Her breath hits his face, bringing with it the scent of cold mountain air. They stay that way for what feels like an eternity, moaning slightly as they deepen the kiss.

Finally Sær, who has the smaller lungs, pulls away, trails of saliva still connecting the two. After catching her breath, Priscilla playfully licks his face. Her large tongue is rough with numerous small bumps, yet each one is smooth, causing a unique sensation that sends a shiver through Sær's body. To anyone else in the world, this act, and their very relationship would seem mad. But to them, it's the most natural thing in the world. The things that would drive most every other man away from Priscilla are what Sær adores. Her size, her fur, her tail, her eyes, all different from any human woman, but all irresistible to him.

For the one person in the world who would love her to find her in a remote, hidden land? It's nothing short of a miracle.

Priscilla's purring returns with a vengeance, rattling Sær in his fluffy perch. Dragons do have a deep, rumbling roar, so it shouldn't be much of a suprise that Priscilla can make such an adorable noise. Suddenly, Sær feels her large hand grasp his head, bringing it to her face as she rubs the furry side of her face against his.

A deep rumbling shakes the very building. surely even Priscilla couldn't...

"What was that?!" She shrieks.

"The Duke," Sær says grimly. "I must defeat him if we are to proceed."

"We must defeat him."

Sær glares at her. "No, Priscilla. We don't know how powerful he is. One misstep and I lose you forever. There is no reason for you to risk your life when mine is unending."

Priscilla huffs frustratedly. Despite her anger, she understands the truth in his words. Besides, she has no desire to fade away so quickly after uniting with Sær.

"Very well," she sighs. "At the very least, I shall have books to read while you die a few times."

Sær sighs. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, sweetheart."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The duo finally reach the final floor, pausing at the door leading to the Duke's chambers. Priscilla turns to face him.

"Good luck, darling!" She pumps her fist.

Sær nods, his face flushed. While her pet name for him made his heart soar, it's also incredibly embarrassing. Sær draws his twin broadswords, connected at the pommel by a three foot chain. He had these specially infused just for Seath. The two blades are permanently lit aflame, serving the dual purpose of heating Sær and melting Seath's icy projectiles. The chain is imbued with crackling bolts of energy, a staple in dragon hunts.

Taking a deep breath, Sær walks past the oak doors while Priscilla peeks out from behind the door, only her eyes and horns showing. The Duke's chambers reverberate with the sounds of heavy footsteps and clanking chain links.

Priscilla wrings her tail nervously.

A great rush of icy air comes sweeping in from the left, and Sær struggles to keep his footing. Another gale reaches his ears, and he deftly dodges forward, an invisible impact cracking the floor and sending him tumbling. Dust and debris flies through the air, and through the haze Sær sees a swath being cut in the shape of a massive claw. Quickly standing up, he baits it, jumping away at the last second as it slams into the ground. He flings a broadsword under the large unseen arm, climbing atop it and catching his sword.

With a savage grunt, Sær stabs the two blades into the invisible beasts upper arm, the electrified chain wrapped around it's arm and sending yellow bolts across the outline of a massive, winged creature. With a gut-wrenching howl, the edges of the beast begin to solidify. It slowly gains form, revealing a scale-less hide and great wings enshrouded in ice. A loud gasp comes from the doorway.

"Father?!"

Sær whips his head around to face Priscilla. "What?!! Father?!"

A great cracking sound comes from Seath the scale-less, and Sær looks down to see an ice crystal sprouting from his chest. He falls to the ground, gasping, a a thunderous voice booms from Seath.

"Thou wert truly confident in thine ability to best me? A mere human who has lived not a third of mine lifetimes?" Sær does not reply, still paralyzed with pain.

"SÆR!" Priscilla rushes forward with an expression of rage greater than any seen throughout the land.

"STAY BACK!" Sær cries. Priscilla hesitates for but a moment, but that is all Seath needs. With a great rumble, he shrieks and sends a cascade of massive icicles down towards Priscilla. The enormous pillars fall around her, trapping her in an icy prison as Sær slowly fades away.

"Well," Seath rumbles. "It would seem mine research shan't stagnate, after all." He bears his fangs in a vile grin. "Mayhaps now you may finally be of some use, dearest daughter."

T.B.C.


	5. Shackled

Sær awoke to the feeling of rough, inhuman hands dragging him along a cold stone floor. A gate opens on rusty hinges, and he is flung bodily into a cold, damp cell, his bare skin scraping against the floor.

looking around to get his bearings, Sær groans upon realizing that his equipment- Estus, armor, blades, and smallclothes- are gone. He is wearing naught but tattered trousers and a tattered robe. The upper part of the robe has degraded to mere strips of cloth, hanging down to his legs and leaving his torso bare.

"DAMN IT!" Sær bashes the ground with his fist. He looks around the cage, his face contorted with fury. To let himself get distracted and put priscilla in danger...

Crunch.

Sær looks down. Bones litter the ground, clad in robes, smallclothes, and leather, all as degraded as his. A fair few of them seem to be clerics... An idea starts to form in Sær's mind. He quickly sets to work.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"I am not one of your experiments, you freak! Release me!"

Priscilla's command is ignored by her father, who shuffles about his study, muttering under his breath. "Regrowth occurs at twice the normal rate in crossbreeds... With a regrowth formula, harvesting time could be cut down to a decade..."

Priscilla's heart sinks down into her stomach, and her hands instinctively cover the patch of scales on her neck. "You're witherimg," she says, realization dawning on her. Seath turns to her.

"You're withering!" She repeats, shouting now. She smirks. "For a dragon without scales to be immortal... Your body is exposed to the flow of time, yet it cannot die. You-"

"ENOUGH! You will show me the respect I am due. I created you, I am immortal, and I possess the largest collection of knowledge in history! YOU WILL SHOW RESPECT TO SEATH, DUKE OF LORDRAN!

Priscilla sticks her tongue out at him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sær holds his creation aloft, concentrating his magic into it. The bones of fallen clerics have been joined so that they may fight once more. He points the bone staff at the cell door, focusing completely on taking knowledge from his brain and fueling magic with it.

"HAAH!"

A great bolt of blue light streaks from the hand bones at the tip of the staff. The spell homes in on the lock, diving into it. The door gives a loud CRACK, then another, and yet another, rattling and shaking each time.

All of a sudden, the bolts on the door shoot out, propelled by the magic filling the door. Sær dashes and swipes like a madman, evading and blocking the makeshift arrows. The door creaks and blows off it's hinges, rocketing towards him. He dodges out of the way, the door clipping his foot and sending him spinning. He handsprings, landing on his feet and right hand as he skids to a stop. Dust and debris swirls throughout the cell.

Sær is running through the dungeons before the door even falls. He has a dragon to rescue.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Seath lays out a bladed grate, a knife, and a prying tool and sets to work dousing them in growth fluid. The concoction will speed up the healing process of whatever is cut, and ensures it grows back completely.

"Come hither, child." Seath reaches through the bars with his fingers, plucking Priscilla's Lifehunt Scythe from her back.

While it couldn't kill him, it could still drain his limitless life force, something he would prefer to avoid.

The icy prison crumbles, and Priscilla shivers from fear.

"Fear not, child," Seath growls. "I merely want your scales."

"N-no," she says quietly. "Sær loves my scales..."

Seath snorts. "The undead? A pitiful creature. Though mostly useless you may be, you are still my blood, and still my daughter." He says the word as if it were something unpleasant he stepped on. "You shan't be courting such a worthless creature. No, we must keep our blood pure."

Priscilla stops shivering, and her eyes go cold. "Sær is not worthless," she says, voice dripping with rage.

"Fool girl. What would you have me call a creature so easily killed? Now come hither."

Priscilla clutches the scales on her neck once again. Grunting angrily, Seath grabs her, and she yells in suprise. Now, Priscilla understands how she must appear to Sær. She is as tall as Seath's mid-thigh, the same way Sær reaches her mid-thigh. For how frighteningly large her father is, she couldn't imagine courting someone that much larger then her. Sær was truly brave, indeed.

Seath roughly places her on the ground in front of him, binding her legs and arms with ice.

Her head is pulled back, and the scaling knife slowly lowers to her neck.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sær dashes through the archive dungeons, viciously cutting through hollows with a sword he procured from the armory. A skeleton blocks the stairs, red eyes gleaming as he holds up a falchion.

Sær runs to the side and approaches the stairs at an angle. He vaults off of the stone handrail, hitting the wall by the stairs and sticking for a moment from his momentum. Quick as a flash, he darts his foot out, bashing the skeleton on its exposed skull. It spins, slumping over the stone handrail. Sær jumps down, bending it's sword arm until it breaks and snatching the falchion. With a single strike, the monster is bisected at the waist.

Sær grabs the creature's curved spare dagger, quickly fastning it between the arm bones of his bone staff. It makes a decent scythe, and having an extra hand free is invaluable.

The following minutes are a blur of flashing steel and flying books. Sær is a tattered dervish, Flowing up and over toppled bookshelves, climbing moldings, and jumping off walls over enemies to stab them in the back. Despite the severity of the situation, Sær finds himself joyously screaming, a sense of freedom and fluidity he hasn't felt for a long time enveloping his mind. From the start of his journey, he had donned plate and mail, unwilling to slow his journey by perishing in a single strike.

But now...

Sær had forgotten that battle was fun. He had forgotten the exhilaration, the triumph, the pure bliss of conquering his enemies with such ease.

As he reaches the final staircase, he hears a scream.

Priscilla.

Sær's eyes are aglow with rage as he whispers to himself.

"Just wait, Darling. It's my turn to save you."


	6. Scales

Sær is frozen.

Priscilla lays bound, a scaling knife at her neck. Upon flinging open the doors and seeing Seath ready to descale her, time had slowed, and Sær's thoughts stopped.

Priscilla had been shunned her whole life, told she was an abomination, locked away to hide her from those who would harm her out of fear. And now her own father was trying to rob her of what few scales she had.

Sær snaps.

He casts a wind spell and hurls his scythe-staff, the gale propelling it forward into Seath's chest. He roars, reeling back and clutching his chest as the scaling knife falls from his grasp. Sær snatches up Priscilla's Lifehunt scythe and with four deft swings, he severs her shackles.

"Priscilla! Magic!"

She nods, and with a flourish she sends a gust of damaging magic powder from her mouth. Sær puts the Lifehunt scythe in her hand, and with no hesitation, pushes the blade into himself. The life flows from him to Priscilla, turning her already impressive magic storm into a hurricane. Sær chugs estus to replenish his life essence, only to give it to Priscilla.

Once he is sure she has enough, he darts away. Seath has recovered, pushing his way forward towards Priscilla. With a roar, Sær dashes up his arm, grasping his twin broadswords and flowing his magic into them to restart their lightning enchantment. The bolts spark to life, wreathing both him and Seath in electricity.

Sær plummets towards the ground, but Priscilla catches him easily. Their eyes meet, and without a word they both put a plan into action. Sær grasps her scythe, putting his feet on the blade. With a shout, Priscilla heaves and swings the scythe round and round, her tail flailing around with her. She lets go, and Sær, now airborne, grasps the scythe normally. With a vengeful scream, he swings the scythe downward, straight through the scale-less monstrosity.

Seath roars. His body, now mortally wounded, starts to dissapate into a mass of souls. "No... My knowledge...I made her... Those scales are mine... Mine... Miiiiiiiine!"

His final word stretches out into an mournful wail. Souls flow en masse into Priscilla, Saer subtly nudging his portion into her in his stead.

She dashes to him and envelopes him in a great big dragon-hug. "Thank you," she whispers. Sær responds by nuzzling into her chest, sighing contentedly.

Suddenly, Sær feels a warm, viscous liquid plop down on his head. He feels it with his hand, then looks up. Priscilla is drooling on him, staring at his bare chest. "Priscilla..." He chides. She doesn't seem to hear him.

"Priscilla!" He reaches up to poke her on the chin. She flinches, appearing to snap out of her daze. "Y-Yes, my l- darling?" She sets him down. "You were being a little obvious there," he scolds. He hastily puts on the raggedy shirt of a fallen adventurer.

"I- Um, I'm sorry, it's just, I've n-never seen a boy, l-like that, and you're always covered up and you looked good andilikeyouandmyheartbeatsreallyfast-"

"Okay, okay!" Sær stops her before she starts hyperventilating. "We're... T-together, so, it's okay to, um... look..." He pauses. Was it? He barely remembered his own name, so knowing the courting customs of Lordran was beyond his grasp. "Anyway, l-lets go," he stammers, hastily changing the subject.

"Go? Go where?" Priscilla tilts her head as her tail presses against her cheek.

"Home, you silly dragon," Sær replies. "Our home."

"Ours?" Priscilla inquires.

"Yes, ours. Unless you would rather sleep here."

"Oh please," Priscilla scoffs. "We both know you could never sleep without clinging to me." Sær grits his teeth, knowing that she's right. Already he cannot imagine life without the crossbreed. The thought of sleeping on the ground, alone, cold, with no one to hold, no gentle breathing under him... He shudders. How horrible! How can anyone live without a Priscilla?

Said beauty scoops him up and breaks into a run. Despite himself, Sær bites back his protests and cuddles up to her chest, the Lifedrain from earlier taken his wakefulness right out of him.

The last sound Sær hears before sleep takes him is the rapid heartbeat of his darling crossbreed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Before Sær had gained the ability to flit between the bonfires, traveling through Lordran would take days at a brisk pace.

With a fluffy carriage like Priscilla, it took hours. She dashed through groups of enemies, jumped roadblocks, and took routes inaccessible to any normal person. At first, Sær was worried she was exhausting herself, carrying him and taking no breaks. Priscilla put his mind at ease, though; dragons have incredibly powerful and efficient lungs. They must, as the air is thinner in the sky.

"Besides," she says, "I am much stronger than you.

"Thats not true!"

"Oh?" She smirks, tossing him up and away as hard as she can. Sær trails off into the sky, and Priscilla dashes forth to catch him. He lands in her arms with a THUD, panting and clutching to Priscilla's chest in fear and shock. Despite herself, she giggles at how cute Sær is when he's scared. Perhaps she would do this more often...

Firelink shrine looms in the distance, It's mass of crumbling arches brightly lit in the midday sun. Priscilla sucks in a breath.

Sær rubs his head sheepishly. "It's not much, but-"

"It's perfect," Priscilla breathes, turning to face him. "Oh darling, it's perfect!" She squeals, hugging him tightly.

Sær blushes. "Well, save your excitement for a bit. I don't-"

"Then we'll make one," Priscilla interrupts. "With my help, we can make a home in days."

"How did you-"

"Know that you don't have a house? Please, darling. You are so painfully simple that it's a wonder you could snag a beauty like me."

"Yes, I know," Sær says sadly. He was well aware of how fortunate he was to have her.

"Come, cheer up! I was only jesting!" She kisses him on the cheek, pausing to lightly lick his ear. Before Sær can comment, She skips down the hill to their new home, singing all the while.

"Darling, darling

Smaller than a starling

Darling, darling

Won't you press close?

Darling, darling

For your love I'm starving

Darling, darling

Oh, how our love grows.

Though I may be taller

Our love is no smaller

Darling, darling

To you this joy I owe.

Though I may be stronger

Our love will last longer

Darling, darling

It will never fade, no.

And I know you love me

From the way you look-see

But from your lips I'll hear it,

To my ear, go near it

Darling, darling

Do you~ Love~ Me?"

Sær leans in close, hips lips barely grazing Priscilla's ear.

"Lovely, lovely

Your fur white as a dove to me

Lovely, lovely

Without you I'm a mess.

Lovely, lovely

You've ensnared me so wholeheartedly

Lovely, lovely

The answer's always yes.

Lovely, lovely

I love how you sing prettily

Lovely, lovely

I~ Love~ You."


	7. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. Sær's name is pronounced say-air. The ash (the æ) is normally pronounced ey (as in hey.) At first glance it seems like it would be sayer, but you just cut a bit off each end. Ex; Sa (pronounce half of the A) then a drawn out air. So, Sa (short A) ayeir. Or, just say the first half of the name sarah slowly and drawn out. Sayair. As much as I know you would love more english lessons, you all seem to enjoy the story. so...

A fortnight has passed since the lovers' arrival at Firelink Shrine, and their house is already coming along splendidly. Down the stairs by the bonfire, they had leveled the ground, laying down a stone foundation. The pair were torn on wether to use stone or wood, and in the end they settled on a mixture of both. Stone corners, window and door frames, and half the floors, with wood for the rest. Many of the walls and windows were partially in place; such was the benefit of building in a ruin.

Truthfully, Priscilla had done the bulk of the construction, since her immense size allowed her to build it with ease. Their new home had to be quite large, as well, to house Priscilla. Sær spent most of his time gathering supplies; nails, mortar, rope, fur and leather for furniture, barrels of luxurious food for Priscilla, and books taken from Seath's archives. He even found a regal silk ribbon with large pale blue diamonds at each end, likely misplaced by a wealthy family fleeing the city. Priscilla had squealed in delight upon receiving it, commenting on how the diamonds looked like icicles. Indeed, that was what had drawn Sær to it.

Already they had built most of the first floor, as well as a bed of feathers and fur. Though, the bed is really only for Priscilla; Sær already has his bed. A large, sexy, fluffy bed with a dragon-tail blanket.

Sær walks into their unfinished home, back from his hunting trip. He sets down a pack of honey, rabbits, pheasant and berries before running up to Priscilla, jumping up and hugging her tail.

"EEP!" She cries, a shiver of pleasure running up her tail from where he touches it. "Goodness! Don't scare me so, darling!"

Sær chuckles, clambering up to her shoulders and burying his face into the nape of her neck, kissing it fiercely. Priscilla purrs, her tail twitching.

"If you keep spoiling me, then we shall never get any work done." Sær groans in protest, continuing to lick and nip at her neck and ears. "Stoooo~p," Priscilla whines, twitching. He does no such thing, instead kissing her neck while stroking her ears with both hands.

Another wave of pleasure shoots through Her, and she involuntarily bucks, sending Sær flying onto Priscilla's giant bed, bouncing around it. She shivers, and her legs give out from underneath her. Stumbling back, her calves hit the bed, and she falls towards it.

For the second time, the last thing Sær sees before dying is a beautiful fluffy tail.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thankfully, the bonfire is a stone's throw from Sær and Priscilla's new home (a quarter of a stone's throw if thrown by Priscilla.) Sær walks in to the familiar sight of Priscilla in tears, knees together and legs apart. Sær walks up to her quietly, no longer wearing his armor. His leggings are naught but shorts and tattered strips of cloth wrapped around his legs, bits of his muscular lower legs showing through. He is fond of the look; Priscilla hates it. She says it makes him look like a dirty vagabond. "A sexy vagabond," Sær would reply, to which Priscilla would scoff and turn away to hide the blush on her cheeks.

His shirt is long sleeved, with the hems tapering to a long triangle, currently pinned up to his shoulders. His manchettes are made of fresh bandages, wrapped around his forearms and the back of his hands, hooking it between thumb and forefinger. They are intended to be used on minor wounds, so as not to waste estus.

His only head ornament is several strands of Priscilla's long silver hair, woven with his own to form a pale ponytail.

Sær had been overjoyed upon receiving it, placed in the middle of their favorite book, The Night's Regalia. Once he reached the middle of the story, the hair fluttered out, held together by a silver-blue ribbon (Sær's favorite color!) He looked to Priscilla, and she gave him a brilliant smile. He had sprinted to her, springboarding off of a wooden crate and onto her stomach, where he remained until morning; They had cuddled all night long.

Sær walks up to the crying crossbreed, patting her leg. She looks up and grabs him, hugging him tightly. Sær figures that he, more than anyone, knows what it's like to be a stuffed animal. Fortunately, she doesn't hug him tight enough to break anything, so at least she's learning.

"I-I can't d-do anything riiiiiiiiight!" She wails, curling up into a ball around Sær.

To his great suprise, she envelopes him completely, blocking out all light and sound. The only sound to be heard was her breathing and her muffled sobs. Sær could certainly understand her distress; if their situations were reversed and she perished under him, he would never forgive himself. But, as much as he hates seeing Priscilla cry, he has to admit that she is excruciatingly adorable when she does.

Sær shifts awkwardly, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing. "It's okay. It's to be expected, after all, given our size."

Priscilla sniffles. "That doesn't help."

"Alright, then. How about..." He wriggles up, popping out between her drawn-up knees and her chin. "This." He kisses her cheek, slowly stroking the scales on her neck with the tips of his fingers. She curls up more, her tail squeezing Sær's shoulder. He smiles, moving his lips down to hers, both of them smiling now. Priscilla giggles, pulling away.

"Well," she whispers. "Now I know I shan't get any work done." She runs her longue tongue along his face, humming all the while. She quickly returns to his lips, their tongues dancing a waltz. Priscilla moans periodically as Sær kisses her, the sound telling him what feels best.

Priscilla slowly pulls away once more. "I cannot believe this," she whispers.

"How so?"

She smiles. "I am free of Ariamis. I have a lovely, if unfinished, home. And I have my darling." She beams, hugging him tightly.

"I had given up all hope of even seeing another person, let alone..." She blushes.

"A pretty boy." Sær scratches his head awkwardly. "Oh, I'm sorry! Is that the wrong word? I meant... Um, H-H-H-Handsome." Her face is practically steaming now. Sær chuckles. He loves the rather childish diction she uses sometimes, but it did raise a question.

"Priscilla," he asks. "How old are you?"

She tilts her head, pondering. "I do not know if time works the same in Ariamis, as the days did seem shorter; perhaps due to the everlasting winter. However, if I had to guess, then mayhaps nine-and-ten?"

"Nineteen!?" Sær gasps, startled. She does have a youthful face, but her figure and mannerisms suggest someone twenty-five, at least.

"Yes," Priscilla says. "Is that... Too old...?" She taps her index fingers together nervously.

"No!" He replies quickly. "It's just... You're so pretty, and you act so mature. I figured you would be older."

She smiles shyly. "How about you?"

"I remember little of my life before I became undead, save for that I have yet to pass my thirtieth year. I am likely twenty-three, or thereabouts."

Priscilla smiles. "T-thats good... That means that in Lordran, we are old enough to do... Naughty things..." Her face turns red once more.

Sær does a double take. "N-n-naughty things!?"

Priscilla looks at him shyly. "W-when the time is right, of course. Do you... Not want to?"

"YES! I mean, no! I-I-I mean, I want to more than anything! I mean, not anything, that makes it seem as if that is all I care about... I, no, I would like to, yes, but-"

His blathering is interrupted by Priscilla squeezing the breath out of him. "Thank goodness. I thought you might be put off by... well, by my size."

"Never."

She snuggles up to him. "Yay," she exclaims quietly. "But, darling?"

"Yes?"

"Let us finish the house first."


	8. Fishy Forests

Sunlight streams onto the winding path through the woods as the two lovers make their way through it. Priscilla pants heavily, not suited to such warm weather on account of her luscious fur.

"Darling, is it much farther? It is so dreadfully hot out, and my tail is beginning to itch."

Sær reaches over and skritches her tail.

"Not long now, love. It shall be well worth the wait."

"Ehhhhh~? But how much longer?" She scratches her chest while Sær watches out of the corner of his eye, his sweat having nothing to do with the heat. "Aaaahhh~!!! Itchy!" She moans. Sær gulps, helping her scratch her back with trembling hands.

The pair reach the crest of the hill, and a gust of wind blows through their hair and fur, respectively. Priscilla gasps. Small rivers flow through the steep mountains, tumbling over rocks and steep drops, forming a maze of glistening waterfalls. They all come down to a single point, a deep pool surrounded by rock overhangs, water cascading down into it. Smaller pools form at each of the higher waterfalls, and Priscilla catches glimpses of brightly lit caves behind them. The many patches of water spray from the falls throws out dozens of rainbows.

"Oh," Priscilla breathes. The wind carries the spray of droplets, lightly frosting her fur with shimmering orbs. A cloud blows away from the sun, and all of a sudden she is aglow, a dazzling mass of silver and gold.

"This... Aah, I..." She struggles to speak. "Oh, my... I-it's so beautiful," she breathes as she slowly sinks to her knees. "I never thought such a place could exist. It's... Oh, Sær, thank you. Thank you so much... I... I love you so much," she sobs, tears flowing freely. "If not for you, I would still be stuck in Ariamis. I never would have seen a heaven such as this."

Sær smiles warmly, walking up and embracing her, nuzzling his cheek against the damp fur of her tummy. She purrs, hugging him with her tail. "You know," Sær whispers. "That pool is deep enough that even a large, lascivious crossbreed could dive into it."

"l-l-lascivious? Me?" She covers her face with her hands, her heart doubling it's pace. She had never even thought of someone seeing her that way... To her, it feels frightening, arousing, stressful, and embarrassing all at once. "I'm...You think...? Oh, u-u-um..."

Unable to stand it anymore, Priscilla dashes to the pool, jumping down clumsily, hitting the water with a splooooosh. A massive cascade of water splashes onto Sær, soaking him. Shrugging, he casts off all of his clothes save for his long shorts, jumping in with a shout. He hits the water with a splash, the pool pleasantly cool in the warm weather. He floats, waiting for Priscilla to emerge.

When she doesn't, he starts to worry, frantically looking around to try to find her.

Suddenly, something grabs him, pulling him, lifting him out of the water. A massive cone rises out of the water, a mass of silver strands with small horns poking through it. A groan pierces through it, low and menacing. "SÆEEEERRRR... I LOOOOOVE YOUUUUU..."

Sær screams, frantically reaching for his blade, only to realize he had left it on the cliff. He struggles, panting, before he realizes what the creature had said. "What? Pris-Priscilla?!" A giggle emenates from the creature as it shakes it's head to part it's hair, revealing one very mischievous crossbreed.

"You screamed like a wee babe," she titters. Sær breathes a sigh of relief.

"It's not my fault you're frightening."

"Hey!"

Sær wriggles from her grasp, flopping about like a fish as he splashes into the water. He doesn't get far. Quick as a flashsword, her tail wraps around his waist, lifting him out of the water. She launches herself through the water, effortlessly gliding through it while Sær trails in the air behind her. "How did you get so good at swimming?" Sær asks.

"Dragons are natural swimmers," Priscilla replies. "'Tis just like flying, except with more resistance. Oooh, darling, look! Salmon!" She energetically swims towards a small waterfall at the end of the pool.

There were in salmon there; dozens of them leaping up the cascading water, the sun glinting off of their reddish-pink scales.

"Your scales are prettier. You're a better swimmer, too."

"Many thanks, darling. Good to know I am superior to a salmon." Sær cringes, until she smiles to show she was merely jesting.

The two stay there, watching the fish continue their arduous trek up the falls.

Until a salmon leaps out of the water and smacks Sær in the face.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A large salmon is speared on a stick, Sær angrily cooking it with pyromancy. Priscilla is rolling on the bank, her laughter so loud that it reverberates in Sær's chest. Sær sulks. "If you keep laughing then you're not getting any," he says, moving his hand around to cook the fish evenly.

Before he can even blink, Priscilla launches herself toward him, opening her mouth and swallowing the fish whole. "Wha- Hey!" Sær cries. By the time he catches his bearings, Priscilla has sprinted off, weaving between the trees like a giant furry snake. Sær sighs defeatedly, then goes to catch another fish, hopefully not with his face this time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

An hour later, it is early evening, and Sær's stomach is rumbling. he sits roasting his fith fish, warily glancing this way and that. The moment he would finish cooking, Priscilla, having turned invisible, would snatch it from him and gobble it whole.

Sær has to admit, he rather likes her demeanor this way (aside from the fish thievery, of course.) Her fluid, purposeful movement, the glint in her eyes when she would turn visible and snatch the fish, and the way she would slither off into the forest were all quite alluring. Not alluring enough to keep him from getting aggravated, though.

Suddenly, an idea pops into Sær's head, and he smiles wickedly. Reaching to grab a fish from the small pile he caught, he moves his pyromancy flame around it. However, he uses no mana, so the fire does not grow enough to cook the salmon.

He makes a show of keeping a lookout, all while pretending to cook the fish.

Predictably, Priscilla turns visible and takes it in her mouth. This time, she doesn't swallow it. She holds it in her mouth, eyes wide with suprise. She struggles to keep from swallowing it, but it is already halfway down her throat. With watery eyes and a loud gulp, she swallows it, her eyes crossing. "Blegh... It's all slimy and salty... Icky. Sær, why did you make me swallow it?!" She cries.

"That's what you get for swallowing my meat without permission," Sær replies coolly. Priscilla smacks her mouth, trying to rid herself of the taste. She is unsuccessful; it sticks to her mouth and the back of her throat.

Suddenly, Priscilla gets an idea of her own. She quickly snatches up Sær, and wasting no time, presses her lips against his, curling her tongue around his. Pulling away, she smiles devilishly as he sputters and coughs. "Do you like the taste of your own medicine?" She says sensually.

"No. But I think I need another dose," he replies, leaning in. "Or perhaps the whole vial."


	9. Frigid Dragon Woman

Priscilla stands outside of her home, her hands on her ample hips. Having finished the first floor, she had decided to take a break and admire her handiwork. Sitting down with a THUD, she twirls the diamond-studded ribbon Sær gave her. A saccharine smile spreads across her face as she thinks of what his reaction might be when he sees her progress. He would be so proud of her!

The undead in question was returning through a stroll in the woods. Truthfully, he had been scouting for game, as he had all but hunted every creature in the nearby forest. Priscilla did have quite the ravenous appetite, though it should wane some once she finishes the house. Thankfully with Sær's ability to flit betwixt the bonfires, he could hunt through all of Lordran and beyond, yet still be back in time to give Priscilla her nightly tail-rub. He's quite good at it, and can have her purring and mewling in seconds.

"Hey, friend! Come!" A voice emnates from a dark corner of the shrine. Patches had returned. He speaks as Sær walks towards him. "You will call me a liar, but I saw a she-dragon! Right here! In our own Firelink Shrine!"

"Yes, she's-"

"-Got marvelously large breasts. Quite a buxom figure, too. Ahh, if only she weren't a freak. No offense, friend, but she would certainly pick the great Patches over-" His sentence is cut off by a bare foot slamming his head into the stone. Patches' vision flashes white, the ground spinning.

As his vision focuses, he sees Sær glaring at him, fury in his soul. The hairs on the back of Patches' neck stand up, and his whole body is seized by a paralyzing primal fear. Sær has the look of a tiger who has just been kicked in the snout.

"That 'freak' is who I love more than anyone or anything. Certainly more than you, or your skull." He slams Patches' head into the stone once more. "She is the sweetest, most adorable, and most caring girl I have ever met, and if you open your filthy mouth to slander her again, I'll stuff it full of steel."

There is a gasp from behind him, and he is lifted into the air by his foot. Priscilla brings him to eye level, frowning. No, smiling! Leaning forward, she kisses him hard, rotating and hugging him whilst doing so. "Oh darling!" She says, pulling back. "Dost thou- Do you really mean it?!"

"My do-eth." Sær replies.

She giggles. "Will he be alright?" She asks, pointing to Patches with her tail.

Sær shrugs. "Sure. Would you like me to make dinner? You must be starving after all your hard work."

"I finished the first floor hours ago," she replies. "And I finished making dinner just now."

"You did?" Sær exclaims. "You're amazing!" He wraps his arms around her neck, nuzzling his cheek against hers. "Just another reason I love you."

"How many reasons are there?"

"Can't count that high," Sær replies, his voice muffled. He had pressed his face into her fur and proceeds to cuddle her viciously. Priscilla sighs happily and turns around, her tail smacking a very dazed Patches.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Back in their newly finished home, having just finished dinner, the couple is embroiled in a fierce display of affection.

Sær and Priscilla are making out.

Priscilla- shy, inexperienced and strong- tentatively puts her hand on his chest, caressing it. Sær- unsure, caring, and brave- gently urges her on, cuddling up to her whenever she grows nervous. Her heart is beating so fast that it vibrates Sær.

Pulling back, he caresses her cheek, planting kisses along her scaled neck. "You don't have to do that," she mumbles. "Normal girls don't have them."

"So?"

"So they're odd."

"...So?"

"So, they're not pretty. If a human girl had four eyes, o-or scales, you would be repulsed."

"I love your scales," Sær says. "They're bright, colorful, cool, smooth to the touch, and they make you like me."

Priscilla cocks her head, puzzled. "Like you? how?"

"Immortal," Sær replies. the whole reason your fa- why Seath captured you was to gain immortality from your scales."

"I'm... Immortal?" She whispers. "But... I age. I came to Ariamis as a young girl."

"When did you get your scales?"

Priscilla closes her eyes in thought. "I grew a few when I was one-and-five... But my whole neck was covered when I was finished growing, at one-and-eight."

"See? The scales of dragons are only complete at adulthood. Other wise, they would stay young and vulnerable forever."

"Immortal..." She whispers, stunned. She puts her head in her hands, blushing furiously. "We can be together, always..." She whispers.

"Hey, hey, focus on the present, please!"

"Huh?" Priscilla lifts her head, allowing Sær to steal a kiss, smiling against her lips. Gently repositioning himself, he pulls her head forward so that he can kiss her harder. Moaning, Priscilla lets out a frigid breath... Literally. One of her most powerful magic abilities she is granted by her dragon blood, Frost Breath, spews from her mouth as she exhales. Her eyes are unfocused, her magic abilities temporarily forgotten in a haze of pleasure.

The frozen mist washes over Sær, traveling over his skin and into his lungs, chilling him to the core. Priscilla focuses her eyes, confused. "Darling? Why did you stop?"

He doesn't answer, instead opting to bury himself in Priscilla's sizeable chest, covercovering himself with her tail to warm up and thaw.

Sær sighs. Most men have to deal with their woman occasionally being frigid, but this is ridiculous.


	10. Mother!

Priscilla shakes her arms, awakening the man resting in them. Sær groans in protest, rolling over and cuddling up against her chest. The two had been traveling all day, and keeping up with Priscilla's gait was exhausting. Nevertheless, he had pressed on, not wanting to seem weak in front of her. Rather pointless, seeing as now he was cradled in her arms.

Priscilla sighs fondly, pushing open the heavy door to the Anor Londo castle. The moment she lays eyes upon the inside, she loves it. The giant hall, tall doorways, wide open rooms... It was the size of a castle even for a crossbreed! She pads down the hall, her bare feet on the cool stone. She knows not how, but she knows exactly where she needs to go.

Priscilla pushes open the door to the central throne room, quickly crossing it and taking the large lift. Stepping off on the second floor, she gently blows ice breath across Sær, waking him up with a shiver. He gives her a look of indignation, which quickly withers into bliss as Priscilla breathes on him normally, warming him and sending a shiver along his skin.

"You still haven't told me what we're here for," Sær says.

"I will once you get down."

He clutches to her with a vice grip. "No way."

"Yes, way," Priscilla replies, attempting to pry him off with her tail. No use; when it comes to embraces, Sær is like a leech. As the two struggle, they fail to notice the large doors in front of them swing open. It is only when they hear a gentle breathing from within that they swivel towards it, jaws agape.

There, reclining on a massive chaise, is a woman thrice Priscilla's size. Walking up to her slowly, Priscilla speaks in a reverent tone. "H-hello, mother."

"Mother?!" Sær squeaks. "Lady Gwynevere is your mother?!"

Priscilla continues, not addressing his suprise. "This is Sær, the man who freed me from Ariamis, and who was so kind as to take me as his lover."

"Don't say it like tha-"

"It has been many a year, dearest daughter," the giant woman interrupts. Her voice is deep, yet soft a silk with a motherly tone. "But while I am grateful to this one for rescuing you, I think you should reconsider. Apologies for addressing courtship so soon after our first meeting, but a mother worries." She smiles before focusing on Sær and frowning. "You... Do you really think I will approve of a man who is so weak as to cling to my daughter's breast? I could smite you with but a glance."

Sær hops out of Priscilla's arms, landing on the floor with a SPLAT before scurrying under her skirts. "See? He is a simpering coward," her mother remarks.

"Any man would be frightened of his lover's mother; what if she were to persuade her daughter to find another? And when said mother is seven times his size and wields powerful magic-"

"That does not change the fact that-"

"But!" Priscilla protests.

"Let me speak!"

"But-"

"Daughter..."

"I love-"

"Priscilla!"

"I want to marry him!"

Gwynevere freezes, a look of shock upon her face. Priscilla continues.

"I want to ask for your blessing." Sær (currently clinging to Priscilla's leg) tightens his grip, mouth hanging open in shock. Slowly, he crawls out from the skirt of her fur, looking at her in awe. "Is... Is that alright?" She asks Sær.

He walks towards her slowly, his mouth still hanging open. "Sær?" Priscilla says in a small, worried voice.

Using as much force as he can, Sær leaps into the air, wrapping his arms around Priscilla's neck and kissing her, hard. He pulls back, laughing joyfully and peppering her with kisses.

"YES!" He cries. He tightens his grip. "Priscilla! Priscilla! Priscilla Priscilla Priscilla Priscilla!" He shouts, kissing her each time he says her name. "I love you. So much," he whispers, touching his forehead to the space between her brows, staring into her eyes. The green slit pupils stare back at him, half concealed behind her eyelids as tears well up behind them.

She nuzzles her head against his, speaking softly. "I love you too, my tiny shiny knight."

"I love you more, my furry flurry maker," Sær replies.

Gwynevere stifles a gag. "I BEG pardon," she begins. "But I don't recall giving you my blessing."

"We don't need it," Sær says, Priscilla gently setting him down. She wraps her tail around his arm, spiraling all the way down to curl around his ring finger.

"And how shall you find one to wed you in these dark times?"

The couple are silent. "Before I shall pass judgement..." She points at Sær. "Come hither, child." He looks at Priscilla, who gives him a nod of encouragement. Reluctantly slipping free of her tail, he climbs up on the dais to stand at the foot of the massive chaise. The massive goddess reaches down. Sær flinches, but remains steadfast. Gwynevere brings him up to eye level, then gasps.

"Oh, MY, Priscilla. He's so handsome!" She gushes.

"Isn't he, though?" Priscilla says, beaming.

"I certainly see why you are so enamored with him. So handsome and Bra~ve," she coos sensually. "I've half a mind to steal him for myself. A man of his size would make quite a pleasurably unique consort."

"Mother!"

"Oh, don't get your fur ruffled, I was merely teasing!" Gwynevere says. "Or am I?" She whispers, giving Sær a kiss that moistens his whole face. Priscilla stomps angrily, her fists upturned at her hips.

"Give him back!" She demands. "You're frightening him!" 'Twas true. Sær cowers in Gwynevere's palm. He has fought dragons, lamia, minotaur, and a host of other nasties, but an amorous, building-sized future mother-in-law brought a new kind of terror. Gathering his courage, he leaps down, and Priscilla catches him in her arms where he quickly burrows in her fur, pulling her tail up so only his eyes are visible.

Gwynevere sighs. "Regardless of my blessing, you cannot be wed. Do you recall my sist- erm, brother?"

"Uncle Gwyndolin?"

"Quite. Only through his blessing may citizens of Lordran be wed, and he has been missing for many a year. I dream of him, choked by smoke and darkness, surrounded by horrors. There is only one place he could be."

"The Abyss," Sær says.

"Well, I don't care!" Priscilla pouts. "We'll get him back!"

"Very well," Gwynevere sighs, knowing better than to oppose her stubborn little dragon. "But to traverse the Abyss, you must aquire a sacred artifact, used by the hero Artorias to drive away the rot it brings. You must defeat his loyal wolf, and take the sword of it and the sword of the wolf knight." She turns to Sær, who only has his head exposed and blows him a kiss, winking. "Good luck, you fertile little stud."

Sær vanishes back into Priscilla's fur like a groundhog in winter.


	11. Dark Roots, Dark Secrets

The trees of Darkroot Garden are so thickly clustered that they block even the wind.

It's midday, and the forest canopy blocks out the light of the sun, only small patches flowing through to give it an eerie glow. Luminous light blue mushrooms glow on the trunks of the large trees, illuminating specks of dust. There are no woodland animals to be found, nor monsters, nor demons. The thick forest blocks out all sound, and the only thing to be heard is the footsteps of a couple walking on the soft grass and loose dirt.

Sær frowns. "How do we know where to go? There are no landmarks, and the trees shift the sun. I don't even know if we're still heading east."

Priscilla absently fiddles with her tail, her eyes hazy after walking for so long in the monotonous wood. "I don't know..." She sighs.

"Priscilla, are you quite alright? You look worn."

"I am worn." She gives him a weak smile. "I feel as if I have been awake for days..."

"Let us rest 'til the night has come and passed, then," Sær replies, a hint of worry in his voice.

Priscilla shakes her head. "I can keep going," she says tiredly.

"Well I can't," he says, flopping down on a patch of moss. "My legs are shorter than yours, and I hunger." Truthfully, he could travel a while yet, but Priscilla is a tough girl who would not stop until she was asleep on her pretty feet. She sighs, but yields, laying against the massive trunk of a tree.

Darkroot Garden has always been famous for it's enormous trees; people would flock from all over the land to profit off of the abundant lumber and ore-rich caves, only to be slain by the monsters in the forest. Eventually, humans and monsters alike were all slain, their corpses allowing the empty forest to grow thick and wild. The forest has been silent since, save for the groaning of the trees as they shift and grow.

Priscilla is a sight to behold, a pure white angel walking through a sea of green and brown. Her fur catches the few rays that pierce the canopy, giving her a glowing outline against the darker forest.

A rare gust of wind breaks through the trees for the first time since the two entered. It kicks up the loose dirt on the forest floor, quickly turning into a veritable storm. Priscilla quickly fades from view, her heavy-lidded slit pupils the last part of her to dissappear.

Sær stands up slowly, groggily walking towards where she disappeared. Suddenly, a blue glow cuts through the storm, and the last thing he sees is a patch of blue spores floating towards his face.

His eyes grow heavy, and he falls to the forest floor.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sær's eyes blink open, struggling to see in the darkness. It is quiet, the wind no longer audible. He tries to move his arm, only for intense pain to flare up in it before being gripped by a rough tendril, buried in his arm. Squirming, he flexes and stretches, snapping it like a branch.

Or a root.

Sær thrashes more strongly, and dirt shifts and falls on his face from above. More struggling, more dirt, more tendrils. He is fighting wildly now, the root-tendrils coming at him in full force. He begins to slow, the roots poking at him, trying to pierce his skin.

A flash goes through his mind. All the laughs he shared, the food, the kisses, the happiness. Who was it with? He couldn't remember. Not her face not her name, just a color. White. Another root peirces his skin. What color was that again? Sær had forgotten. His mind fades, his muscles slacken, and he starts to drift off into unconsciousness, a thousand voices lulling him back to sleep.

But through the din, one voice cuts through, light and loving as the sun.

"Darling."

With a final great tug, Sær bursts through the forest floor, red faced and panting, his face a mess of dirt, rage, and passion. He stands, spitting on the broken wood. No mere tree would keep him from Priscilla.

Looking around, he sees little has changed. The forest is thicker, darker, but elsewise as quiet as it was before. A feather touch spreads across his entire back, and he whips around, drawing his blade, now rusty and brittle.

The forest is still empty. The touch trails across his back once more, and once more he whirls around with and angry shout. As he comes to a halt, a darkness covers his left eye. He grabs it, pulling, only to feel a sharp pain on his scalp. Is this...

His hair?

Sær runs his hands along his back, confirming his suspicion. Oddly enough, the white band of Priscilla's hair tied to the back of his head has grown as well, covering is entire head, mixing with his own black hair to make strands that are half white and half black, giving it an eerie look.

Sær looks around him, turning slowly and taking in the forest. Upon closer inspection, it has changed. The leaves beneath the canopy are impossibly large, the largest being even bigger than Priscilla, spiraling around the trunks. Since the canopy is more dense, the trees must have adapted to gather water. His suspicions are confirmed when he spots a large stream pouring down the giant leaves, cascading onto the ground to soak into the ground or run downhill.

Just before Sær makes a full rotation, he spots it.

There, a short distance away, is what has to be the largest tree in anyplace, at anytime, so massive that it can't fit in Sær's field of view. The trunks of previous trees that once encircled it swirl around it, jutting out from the trunk. Then it hits him.

That's where Priscilla was. Sær takes deep breaths to calm himself. Charging in and mindlessly hacking at the tree would take ages, and would likely end up hurting them both. He can't burn it, he can't cut it, so how could he save her?

"DAMMIT!" Sær punches the tree, his stiff bones cracking and popping all over his body after being still for so long. He starts pacing the tree, his body continuing to pop, crack, and stretch.

His mind wanders to the event of his wakening. Those voices... Thousands of voices, Priscilla's among them. "I could hear her voice when the roots were inside me," he ponders aloud. "But other's as... Well..." A thought clicks in his mind. There were never any bodies recovered. If any of them were to sleep or fall in battle, the branches would pierce their skin.

It all makes sense to him now. It would normally be impossible for the forest to exist; water and sun could barely pass the canopy, the trees were to close to draw enough nourishment from the soil, and there are no creatures to die and nourish the soil.

Sær walks over to a small tree. Gritting his teeth, he draws his sword, and with a might heave, he buries it into the trunk. A spray of crimson fills the air, bringing along with the smell of salt and iron. Every single person to fall in this forest is still alive, feeding the trees with their own souls and blood.

Including Priscilla.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

With a crazed grunt, Sær once more struck the rock into the earth. A mound of dirt stands beside him, filled with roots and clumps of dirt and blood. Over and over he strikes the rock into the soil, digging furiously. Suddenly, a cascade of dirt falls from the ridge he had dug, and when the dust settles, a hand, peach and still pulsing with life, hangs from the dirt.

It twitches, and the iron bracelet on it's wrist glints in the sunlight.


	12. Earthen Jailbreak

The usually quiet wood is filled with the sound of shifting dirt, clacking rocks, and frenzied grunts of exertion. Sær digs furiously, using the remaining broken half of his sword. After so long underground, it's become rusted and brittle, snapping in half soon after Sær started digging. A large mound of earth lies next to him, rising as the sun lowers. Sweat pours off his face in rivulets, dropping down into the loose earth as he works.

He is close to unearthing the buried man, so, tossing his sword away, he begins to shift the soft dirt with his hands. The going is slow, and by the time the few beams of light that can be seen are shining straight down, he is only just unearthing the man's helm. With renewed strength, Sær picks up his broken sword, using it to scrape away the earth, revealing a tangle of pulsing roots. They shift and writhe upon being uncovered, and one with draws itself from the man's chest, lunging forth. Sær's eyes glint, and he lets it peirce his shoulder, wrapping his arm around it and heaving, ripping it out of the ground as it emits an eerie screech. The root falls to the floor in a spray of blood, writhing and wriggling before going still.

Sær sets to work, mercilessly grabbing and chopping the parasitic plants. In a cascade of earth, the knight tumbles from the dirt, gasping his first breath in an impossibly long time.

"HO HO!" The man belts out, causing Sær to jump back, startled. The knight stands on shaky legs, then clasps his shoulders. "My friend! I cannot express my gratitude sufficiently! For so long I was trapped in this ghastly wood..." He shudders. "I, Solaire of Astora, pledge my leal service to you!"

"That's alright," Sær says, put off by the man's boisterousness. Optimism is the last thing he wants; it feels like a crime for happiness to exist while Priscilla still sleeps. He disentangles himself from Solaire. "Truth be told, my reasons are selfish. I need aid."

Solaire chortles. "Whatever you ask of me, you shall have it. I am at your whims!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The sun sets on the third day of Sær's awakening as the group gathers for supper. The company had grown exponentially quite quickly; dig up one person, and they dig up another, and the manpower is doubled. Within the few days since they first began, they had unearthed hundreds of trapped travelers, each with their own skills and an unrelenting eagerness to aid the man responsible for freeing them; Sær.

The group gathers around a small clearing, each eating while they chatter about their respective duties. Andre the blacksmith forges shovels and axes to aid in the rescue effort, Cale maps the forest as it's cleared, Rosabeth would light fires and burn paths with her pyromancy, and Vengarl educated the group on battle tactics and stories of old. Vengarl and Sær had become fast friends; Sær brazenly told him not to get 'a head' of himself, and that gave him the hardest laugh of his life. The entirety of the company would avoid mentioning the fact that he was naught but a head and helm, and he respected Sær for being so straightforward.

Vengarl takes a deep breath, free from the smell of earth, a scent he had to suffer for decades. The only company to be had in that miserable dirt was the occasional mole or burrowing snake; many an argument had ended with a hiss and a bite. He's happy just to talk to someone with thumbs.

"Not long now," Sær ponders beside him.

"'til we unearth your wife?"

"Not married just yet," he replies.

"If she is as fair as you claim, then you would do well to keep a close eye on her. To hear you speak, one would think that she is a veritable goddess."

"Well, she is half goddess."

"Truly?" Vengarl raises an eyebrow. "Big lass, is she?"

"You could say that. Tall, long fair hair, pristine white fur..." Sær sighs.

"White fur? Such opulence is only afforded to royalty."

"Her father's a Duke."

"A Duke?!" Vengarl's eyebrows raise even higher. "What dark sacrifice did you have to make to marry a goddess and a noble's daughter!? I call bull-shite. No man- Especially a lowly undead vagrant- could be so lucky."

"You would eat your words upon meeting her, if you had a stomach." Sær sighs, saddened by the thought of Priscilla in her earthen prison.

"Cease your incessant suspiring, Sigh-ær." Vengarl growls.

"So long as you cease your incessant barking, Ven-growl."

The two are silent, then burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the wood as the rescued company work to aid their savior.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On the night of the first moon since Sær's awakening, the group gathers in a large clearing by Priscilla's tree. The company is five hundred strong now, with another hundred sent into the depths of the forest to rescue more unlucky souls.

The forest teems with light now, lanterns lining the bridges that run through the trees. Houses, kitchens, and even staircases have been carved into the massive trees, making massive, interconnected towers that are lit up like a starry sky. The dozen or so children that had been rescued run fearlessly along the bridges, swinging on vines and carving slides into the stairs.

Below, the pavillion is abuzz with chatter as axes and shovels are dispensed among the crowd. Solaire, sporting his typical flair for theatrics, climbs the carved steps overlooking the crowd.

"My friends! Before we begin, I bid thee all to rise your arms and praise the-" Several apples, two gauntlets and a book are promptly thrown, the apples hitting their mark and splattering against Solaire's tunic.

"Get on wif' it!"

"Stick your praise where your sun don't shine!"

"If you were my sun, you'd get a right wallopin'!"

Solaire sweeps the chunks of apple off of his shirt, used to their disdain of his obsession. "Yes, well... The time has come to free the lady Priscilla from her earthen prison! Take it a day or a year, we shall not rest until Master Sær's betrothed is free!"

A roar erupts from the crowd as they all hurry to grab their tools, eager to repay their savior. Solaire walks over to Sær, who had stood against the wall listening quietly. He claps his hand upon Sær's shoulder, only for it to emit a growl. "SUN ABOVE!" He jumps back in fright.

"Watch yourself, sun," Vengarl says, for indeed it is him. His helm (and head, for they are one) is fastened to Sær's left shoulder like a pauldron, glaring at Solaire through the mouth of his helm.

Solaire composes himself and turns to Sær. "You must be quite thrilled, eh? To see your lovely lady once again, after such a tragic parting! How romantic!" His arms swing in exaggerated motions. Sær cringes. "I cannot wait to meet her!"

"I, as well," Vengarl adds. "I have seen many things, but never a perfect woman, which she is, if you are to be believed."

Sær chuckles. "I think you two will be suprised, regardless..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A day into the rescue effort, and significant progress has been made. It is made slow going by the precautions taken so that Priscilla may not be harmed, however. holes must be carefully chisled to make sure it is safe to swing an axe, while the tunnels beneath have to be perfectly supported so as not to collapse the great tree. Sær had attempted to aid in the rescue, but could not bring himself to sink an axe into the tree, convinced it would hit Priscilla. Instead he would pace about the treetop villa, nearly wearing a hole in the floorboards.

On the eve of the second day, Sær is snapped out of his reverie by numerous shouts. Flying down the slide the children had carved, he jumps off and hits the ground running. As he approaches the tree, he sees it. A tuft of white fur.

With a yell and a teary smile, he snatches up a chisel and starts furiously chipping the wood away, wood flying. The rest of the villagers join him, careful to leave support for the tree. Soon, the forest floor is littered with wood shavings, and Priscilla tumbles out of the great tree. Sær quickly hacks at the writhing roots as the rest of the company stare in stunned silence. They all gather around the giant beauty, bewitched.

Priscilla's tail twitches and her eyes slowly open. Her slit pupils dilate, exposed to light for the first time in decades. Sær gently stokes the thin fur on her cheek. "Priscilla? Darling? Can you hear me?"

"Mmmmh... Tired..." She wraps her arms around him, nuzzling his chest. Vengarl lets out a suprised shout and Priscilla flings Sær away, scuttling back against the tree, now wide awake. "Wh-what is that monstrous growth upon your shoulder?!"

"I'm monstrous?!" Vengarl says incredulously. He drops his voice to an angry whisper, muttering to Sær. "You failed to mention that your fiancé is thrice your size," he hisses. "A little warning might have been useful!"

"Two and a half times my size," Sær corrects him. "Isn't she great?!" He beams.

Vengarl would shake his head in disbelief, if he could. And they say I have lost my head.

Once the village recovers from their initial shock, They quickly take to Priscilla like wrinkles on a hollow. They watch on in awe an no small amount of embarrassment as the two lovers cuddle, feeding each other. It takes some getting used to; it's difficult for the men to fathom having such a large partner. It becomes a strange fascination to the village, and Sær and Priscilla quickly gain celebrity status due to their pairing and Sær's rescue of most everyone there.

Priscilla isn't coping to well. This is the first time in her life she has had to interact, or even be around a group. Sær has to shoo away the crowds at least twice a day while Priscilla cowers adorably behind her tail.

"Darling." Priscilla speaks softly to him on the last day of their first week together again. She lays on a large pillow, sewn by a team of seamstresses and filled with down feathers by a team of hunters. They lay warm and comfortable inside the great tree, it's now-hollowed trunk serving as a luxurious tower for the two. The walls are covered in ornate carvings, courtesy of admiring sculptors in the village. The pair had become de facto royalty, if only in name. Grateful villagers would come bearing gifts at all times of day, and they scarcely had room to store them.

"Hm?" Sær hums.

"When shall we continue our quest?" I understand the need to rest after this ordeal, but my aunt- I mean, uncle Gwyndolin will be even weaker now. After so much time trapped, we can't afford to be as lazy as you are." She pokes his forehead admonishingly. "I begin to grow worried about my future husband's idleness. I won't be shouldered with all the housework will you sleep," she says, vigorously poking his head.

Sær winces, burrowing into her chest to evade her assault. "As soon as the scouts return," he yawns. "Your mother said we can't have help, but a little information doesn't count, right?"

"I won't tell if you won't."

Said information was not long off. The next morning, the two are visited by a courier hauling a comically large scroll, so made so Priscilla can read it. She scans it as Sær stretches, still groggy. "Darling, about the artifact we need to obtain..."

"The sword?"

"Yes. The wolf gaurding it-"

"Are you really that worried about one wolf? Art thou turning craven, milady? One kick and he'll be sent across the-"

Priscilla reaches out a hand and clams his jaw shut. "The wolf's name is Sif, the very same wolf from the legends. One he may be, but that poses a problem when he is as big as me." Sær's eyes widen.

"Oh," she says, releasing his jaw. "And he doesn't guard the sword. He uses it." She smirks. "But since I am a craven, I shall leave him to you."


	13. Inoculation

The journey through Darkroot Basin is an unpleasant one, but no more difficult for it.

As usual, Priscilla charged through enemies and obstacles that would have taken Sær days to pass. He would stand by in awe as she would charge ahead, cleaving through enemies like butter. Over her time trapped in the forest, her hair had grown to her mid thigh, fanning out in a brilliant display when she twirls. Her coat had grown slightly thicker as well, with the fur on her forearm wings and tail just long enough to sway in the wind. She really does look like and angel.

Priscilla finishes her sweeping attack, her hair fluttering to a stop as the last gnarled tree-person falls to the ground in a shower of splinters. She pants slightly, her large chest rising and falling. Sær finally catches up to her, panting heavily. "What am I even here for if you don't leave any enemies for me?" He complains.

Priscilla gives him a haughty smirk. "You are my most esteemed bed warmer, stuffed animal, and groomer."

"Fine way to adress your husband."

"Not married yet, dear." She leans down, putting her face up to his and poking his chest with a small, nail-like claw. "And don't expect much to change."

"I should hope not," he replies. "What exactly does matrimony do in Lordran?"

Priscilla pushes against her chin with her tail, thinking. Vengarl chimes in from his place on Sær's shoulder. "Quarter ownership of each other's land and coffers, dowry, changing of titles, and so on. But none of those really apply to either of you, I should think."

"Well, I make out like a bandit. Quarter ownership of the archives, Ariamis, and the title of Crossbreed Sær." He smiles.

"You are not a crossbreed," Priscilla points out.

Sær snorts. "I could be. I have a wolfish appetite, and behold these canines!"

Priscilla leans closer. "They are not that big. With all the time we've spent kissing, I should think that I know how-OW!"

Sær nips her on the nose, then dashes for safety. Regaining her senses quickly, Priscilla's tail whips out faster than a snake's strike, coiling around his ankle and yanking him into the air. "Turnabout..."

She stretches her jaw, clamping it under his chin, her top row of teeth reaching his brow. "Ifh Fhawa pway," she says unintelligibly. Sær flails around, but Priscilla's bite is just tight enough to keep him from escaping. She licks his face, her long tongue giving him goosebumps as he sputters. She smells like cold winter air, along with a mineral-like scent.

She pulls Sær away with a 'POP!' and he hangs by his ankle, dazed. Priscilla pokes him with a claw, setting him swinging like a pendulum. "I'm not food," he says nonchalantly.

Priscilla titters. "That is what all humans say, yet they still taste divine."

"You're not serious? Y-you didn't eat any humans in Ariamis, right? Right!?"

Priscilla skips off, giggling while Sær dangles behind her, nervously wiping his face.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The mismatched group pad through the dense wood, weapons at the ready. Vengarl keeps a lookout to the southwest, while Priscilla and Sær cover the north and southeast, respectively. Enemy encounters have been increasing steadily as they near the center of the forest.

"Halt," Vengarl whispers. "Do you smell that?"

"What?" Sær and Priscilla say in unison.

"It smells of... Cat."

"Cat?" Sær snorts. "Here? Unlikely. If Priscilla can't smell it, then it probably isn't there. Her sense of smell is powerful."

"As is mine," replies Vengarl. "A century since I had a body last, and my senses are sharper than anyone's."

"Such a long time underground would sharpen your smell and hearing," Priscilla chimes.

"Nana's kitten disappeared..."

The trio look at each other, silently confirming they all heard the deep, gravelly voice. They drop low, ears straining to hear more.

"So her grandson carries a cage..."

The trees rustle, groaning and bending. The ground thuds gently underfoot, and Sær exchanges worried glances with Priscilla.

"He ever has his cage..."

The rumbling stops. The voice echoes out once more, barely more than a whisper.

"And now they're never coming back."

The trees explode in a shower of wooden shards, part of a trunk flying forth and hitting Sær. The breath is driven from him as he is flung into another tree, trapped. With effort, he is able to lift his head to scan his assailant. The creature is massive, easily twice Priscilla's size and terrifyingly disproportionate. It's head is misshapen, the extent of the disfigurement obscured by a tattered cap of fur. Large hands hang down to it's knees, each one dragging a cage attached to a long chain.

It is clothed in a patchwork of untreated catskin, too large to be a normal feline.

"SO COME INTO THE CAAAAAAAAAAAAGE!!!" A scream emits from the cage, and it is now clear that it is filled with emaciated bodies. A chill runs down Priscilla's spine.

The creature gives a roar of pure bass, lifting it's massive arm and yanking the cage into the air. Time seems to stand still as the cage reaches the peak of its arc, shifting momentum as it slows. With a flick of his wrist, the creature sends the cage hurtling towards Priscilla. She lifts up her scythe, catching the large cage in the crook of the weapon. Her bare feet dig through the dirt, and her tail pushes back to support her. The bodies in the cage writhe frantically, grabbing at the blade.

"Aaaaah!" Priscilla gives a terrified shriek, and with all her strength she heaves her scythe forward, launching the cage away from her. No sooner than she does so, the other cage comes flying towards her from the side. She quickly shifts her scythe to the side, supporting it with her forearm as it crashes into her. She blocks the brunt of the blow, but the force of the impact sends her flying. Priscilla twists on midair, tailspringing off the ground to get some distance from the massive monster.

"My lady!" Vengarl's voice echoes across the clearing. "Our weapons are ill fitted to deal with this monstrosity! We must retreat, NOW!" Sær moans groggily, stirred by the commotion. Priscilla looks to the creature, then Sær. Her mind made up, she dashes to him, using her scythe to pry the fallen tree off of him. Heavy footfalls shake the ground behind them, and chains rattle as the giant lines up for another swipe.

Her face red with exertion, Priscilla gives a mighty heave, pushing the log off of Sær and snatching him up, holding him in the crook of her arm. No sooner than she does so, both cages come down, slamming into the ground as Priscilla dodges one and blocks the other.

The impact rattles her bones, loosening her grip on her scythe. The emaciated bodies in the cage latch on to it, and the giant rips the cage away, pulling Priscilla's precious Lifehunt Scythe away with it.

Not even taking time to retrieve it, she dashes through the forest, weaving through the trees only for them to be toppled by her pursuer. The forest thins, and a cliff looms in front of them. Suddenly, a cage comes flying towards Priscilla, striking her back and sending Sær tumbling from her arms. The cage rolls and smacks into the cliff, and the rock shimmers. "Priscilla..." Sær croaks. "Illusory... Wall... Safe for us."

Priscilla nods, picking him back up. The strap fastening Vengarl to Sær is tattered and scuffed, and snaps from the movement. "Grab him!" Sær yells.

"No!" Vengarl is rolling down the slope, and his voice echoes up to the two. "Find me later! JUST RUN!"

Priscilla tightens her grip on her lover, dashing towards the newly discovered passage. Inside, a bonfire crackles, it's smoke of bone and ash warding off the monstrous gaoler. The two cross the threshold, seemingly safe.

While the giant cannot pass, his captives are still mere humans, unaffected by the repellant. The cage is flung forward, striking Priscilla's back once more and sending her tumbling into the bonfire. Priscilla shreiks, her long fur set alight. The tattered rags of the prisoners in the cage light as well, and the giant gives a roar, dropping the chain and fleeing the fire.

Priscilla's entire body is now wreathed in flames, and she flails on the ground as the smell of burning fur fills the air.

In the distance, a far off howl echoes through the forest.

To be continued...


	14. A Stoned Lass

Vengarl's world is a tumbling view of a dim forest.

He rolls and bounces, often at odd angles due to the snout of his helm. Grass and twigs scratch at the small part of his face that is exposed. As he passes through a pile of branches, a sweet smell overcomes him, the scent piercing his mind and sharpening the world around him. Several get caught in the teeth of his helm, overwhelming his senses and sending him into a caughing fit.

The journey down the slope steepens, suddenly giving way to a sheer cliff. Suddenly, Vengarl feels the ground give way, and he falls, twigs and leaves raining down after him. The trip is short, but long; what felt like an eternity couldn't have been more than a few seconds. He comes crashing down, hitting a statue and rolling on the ground at it's feet. The fragrant branches stuck to Vengarl's helm gave way upon impact, and they litter the statue, their scent filling the air. All is quiet, and Vengarl lays silent, wishing the ache in his head would go away.

After a few long moments, the statue begins to twitch, making small puffing noises. Suddenly, the statue jerks and twitches violently, going into a coughing fit.

Small chunks of rock fall off of it-or her, rather, since it is shaped like a female- and the coughing intensifies. The chunks of rock shift and slough off, revealing smooth white skin clad in tattered rags. The woman doubles over, hacking, as Vengarl watches. After a time, her coughing finally subsides, and she kneels, catching her breath. Vengarl clears his throat.

Her head shoots up, looking for the source of the noise. Her eyes finally come to rest on Vengarl. "Hello," he says gruffly. She screeches, falling back on her modest rump and scurrying until her back hits the wall. "W-w-wha-what manner of beast are you?" She stutters.

"The kind that just freed your flat, stony behind, you ungrateful wench," he growls.

She picks a fragrant branch out of her hair, realization dawning on her. "I-I... I thank you, brave... Knight..?"

"Piss to your Knights," Vengarl mutters. "Bunch of sodding fools high on their own fumes. I am- was, rather- a mercenary."

"And now...?"

"Is it not obvious?"

"...You're head of a group of mercenaries?"

Vengarl sighs. "You would get along wonderfully with a Macrophiliac friend of mine."

A.N. A Macrophiliac is a lover of giants. I daresay Sær fits the bill.


	15. An Itch for civilization

Priscilla's world is awash in flame.

The fire has spread, and her fur is aflame, the unbearable heat sending her into a panic. The soft strands wick ever closer to her pristine white skin, barely fazed by Priscilla's frantic rolling.

"PRISCILLA!" Sær emits a strangled cry, frantically slapping at her in a vain attemp to quench the flames. "Frost breath! Frost Breath!" She draws in a deep breath, only to have her lungs filled with smoke, her nose filled with the smell of singed fur. She coughs and splutters, fighting the urge to retch.

Finally, with a painful gasp, she draws a breath deep enough, drawing small crystals from her salivary glands. The crystals swirl within her mouth, cooling the air inside, releasing a torrential gust of frost as she frantically exhales. The chill wind and snow covers her skin with a snapping, sizzling sound, quenching the fire just as it consumes the last of her fur.

Priscilla lays back, panting, her skin pink, raw, and itchy from the heat.

Sær lets out a choked sob, rushing over to his dragon bride-to-be and frantically checking her for injury. His eyes come to rest on her neck, where a large, delicate hand clasps over it. Priscilla slowly moves her hand, letting out a whimper of relief as she sees that Sær's gift, the beautiful diamond ribbon, is untouched. Her hand is blistered, burned from protecting the precious gift. She sees Sær's face and gives a weak smile. "What kind of wife would I be... If I let your gift burn?"

Tears slowly drip down onto her burned hand, rolling off into the frost covered ground.

Priscilla shivers as Sær rubs ointment on her back.

Though barely even touched by flame, her frantic rolling on the hard ground had given her tremendous bruises. She bites back a moan as Sær spreads more across the nape of her neck.

Most of her fur is gone, save for the odd tuft here and there. Her tail is still covered, only singed in places, and a light dusting covers her lower back and spine. The fur of her face had been singed clean off, and her hair now rests just past her neck.

Finished with the ointment, Sær rubs his cheek against Priscilla's chest, his skin tingling from the pleasant softness. She stirs, cracking one eyelid and smiling as she nuzzles him with her nose. Supporting him with her arms, Priscilla turns to lay on her side, drawing her knees up and enveloping Sær with the soft, toned flesh of her smooth thighs. He gives an audible moan, a jolt of electricity shooting down his back, goosebumps quickly following. Sær lifts his head to give her a quick smooch, and the two lovers lock lips, enjoying the heat of each other's mouths. Reluctantly, they separate, a thick strand of drool still connecting them. Priscilla's tail curls around her lover's chest, just tight enough to constrict his breathing a little.

Just the way he likes it.

Priscilla has collected a vast knowledge of Sær's weak points, far exceeding his knowledge of hers. She knows his ears, neck and upper back are unbelievably sensitive to her touch, possibly more that that place. She isn't sure, as they haven't ventured that far yet. She knows he likes to be licked and squeezed. She knows he likes it when she nuzzles her cheek against his. She knows that he loves it when she purrs. And she knows that if she does all of that at once, Sær will writhe in ecstasy, begging her to stop before he faints from the pleasure. He is putty in her hands.

Sær's breathing evens out, indicating that he has fallen asleep once more. His peaceful face moves with the rising and falling of Priscilla's chest, and she strokes his hair gently as she drifts off to join him.

Priscilla hates her clothes.

A patchwork of old tents from Darkroot City create a makeshift cloak, the dark, multicolored squares clashing horribly with her white hair and skin.

Having never worn any clothes before besides panties, ( a fact that had made Sær grow red) Having the foreign substance rub against her skin was maddening. More than once she had disrobed in frustration, prompting Sær to cover his eyes, fighting hard not to peek. He didn't always win; Priscilla is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. Her skin is pale, yet still healthy-looking, and her somach is toned yet smooth, gentle sloping curves leading down into her hips. Sær never thought a mere midriff could be sexy, but it barely suprised him that Priscilla's is.

"Your stomach is beautiful," he had said while she was hastily pulling on her dress.

Priscilla had flushed scarlet. "I-It-It's just a tummy!"

Her new appearance and ability to flit betwixt the bonfires is an opportunity that shant be ignored. While crossbreeds may be shunned throughout Lordran, giants and giantesses are much more common. Indeed, they are revered, especially in these dark times. Their size makes them excel in all maner of tasks, from woodcutting to construction, though none are anywhere near as fair as the lovely Priscilla. Nor are any other maidens, come to think of it.

"Darling, can we visit the city first? I want to see all the little people!" She exclaims.

"Ah, Priscilla..."

"They must look so funny, hundreds bustling about in such a small place! Silly little humans."

"Priscilla."

"Hm?"

Sær crosses his arms clearly miffed at the demeaning comments toward his species.

Priscilla sucks in a breath. "Ahh, s-save for my darling, of course!" She giggles nervously. Sær rolls his eyes, tugging her towards the bonfire by her tail.

The two touch the bonfire, and smoke billows around them, shifting time and space as they are whisked off to a city as yet unknown. For when the might of a crossbreed is introduced to the bonfire, there is no telling where one might end up...


	16. Bespoke

A.N. Change of plans. Ive been putting off Sif for too long, and I have another idea I'd like to do. For this story, it's going to be Sif, then abyss, then gwyndolin, then the wedding, then the night of the wedding. ; )

Then a 1 yr (in the story) gap in this fic and my Bloodborne fic, as well as my other dark souls fic. A new fic will take place during the gap, featuring characters from all three, mainly Priscilla, Sær, the Hunter, the Doll, Firekeeper, and the Ashen One.

This way I can update all of them without breaking continuity. As usual, O.L.T. will take priority, followed by M.T.G.

A.N.F. will go largely un-updated.

Also, a reminder, Priscilla now has short hair that just touches her shoulders, and she is fur-less save for her tail and arm-wing-things. Sær has long black neck length hair with strands of Priscilla's woven in.

And Priscilla's chest is (relative to body size) size GG, as far as I can tell. Both Seath and Gwynevere have massive chests, so it's no surprise that Priscilla does as well. (Also, Priscilla is technically a wyvern, as she has ice attributes and her wings are attached to her arms.)

~~~~~~

A mighty fwoosh rings throughout the courtyard, and Priscilla and Sær are formed from the smoke of the nearby bonfire, propelled forward by Priscilla's power. She clings to him as they roll along the ground, skidding to a stop at the foot of roughly hewn stone stairs. The two look up, only to witness the startled faces of Vengarl and the tattered woman holding him.

"Hullo," Sær chirps.

"Are you well, mister Vin-gral?" Priscilla asks. Vengarl never had the heart to correct her.

"I am faring well enough, lady Priscilla, though I lack favorable company."

"Hey!" The ragged woman says.

"This poorly dressed girl is known as Rosabeth of Melfia. I unwittingly freed her from a curse of stone, and she is now indebted to me. I would have her pay with her body, but seeing as neither of us have one...

Rosabeth smacks his helm against the stairs, setting his ears to ringing. "Of course I would get stuck with this lout," she complains. "I had expected someone like you to rescue me," she says to Sær, blushing. Priscilla growls, her tail curling protectively around Sær and yanking him to her chest. Rosabeth's eyes widen, frightened by this massive woman intent on protecting her mate.

Priscilla turns around, clutching Sær and sulking. "Damn you for being so handsome," she mutters. The both of the turn beet red, not meeting each other's gaze. Sær hugs her tail reassuringly, stroking it. Despite how close they are, anything related to sexual desire sets their faces aflame.

Now, Sær is no maiden, or the whatever the male equivalent of a maiden is, but there's something about his bride-to-be that sets his heart racing like no other. The thought of laying with her had an allure far beyond mere physical pleasure. In the theater of his mind, when he is inside of her, the whole world is warm and pleasant, and the past and future cease to exist. He wants for nothing, and all of existance disappears with the first thrust. Priscilla's sighs of pleasure fill him with ecstasy, and her tail writhes and squeezes him as they reach their peak.

He snaps out of his fantasy, turning to look up at Priscilla. He loves her with all his heart, and when she holds him against her chest the both of them grow warmer than bed of chaos. The cool breeze coming off of the Majula coast disappears as she hugs him tighter, enveloping him between her breasts. Sær sighs happily. He truly has the most beautiful, comfortable wife- er, wife-to-be, in all of Lordran, and she would be all the more so once her fur grows back.

"A-hem," Vengarl interrupts. "There will be time enough for that and more once you are married. Do we not have a quest to complete?"

"Mister Vin-gral is right, Sær," Priscilla agrees. It has been at least a decade since we set out, judging by how long your hair was when you saved me from darkroot garden. Poor aunt- um, uncle Gwyndolin, must be suffering greatly."

"We should hurry, then," Sær says, gently untangling himself from Priscilla's tail and falling to the ground from between her breasts. "But while we're here, we should get Priscilla more... Suitable attire."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Majula, despite looking like a ruin, teems with shops to provide various undead with whatever they may need. Swords, armor, female company, and skin cream (for the humanity-starved walking pieces of bacon.)

Priscilla walks out from behind a large building, the only place large enough for her to change. The sight of her drew a loud wolf whistle from Sær, while the rest of the town's occupants looked on in amazement.

Her top is a black gown of shining silk, swooping along her form, accentuating it.

The skirt portion parts to either side, forming an A shape, allowing freedom of movement, even more than her fur. The rims are trimmed with gold. Her sleeves are long, as well as wide at the cuff, with a slit along the forearm for her fluffy "wings." Draped around her shoulders is a short cape of dark, thick cloth whitch comes around to her front in another A shape, leaving her scales and the area between her neck and chest bare, save fore the diamond ribbon Sær gave her. Gold trim rings the cloak as well. She wears a pair of flat, black, flexible shoes that leave the top of her feet bare.

Sær melts. Paying for the custom-made garb may have left his soul vessel empty, but the sight of his fiance in her magnificent garb makes his

heart- among other things- feel full.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Rarely does Sær ever dislike Priscilla's size. That is one of his favorite things about her appearance, after all. It allowed them to overcome many obstacles thus far. It also means that she is much stonger than him, and a much better warrior, a boon at almost all times.

This is not one of those times.

Sær splutters and coughs as Priscilla dunks him in a vat of soapy water, scrubbing him raw with a large brush. It couldn't be helped; he had tried to run the moment Priscilla suggested he clean up to be fitted for new clothes.

He hisses as she scrubs his neck and upper back. "You vile vixen," he huffs.

"Whatever do you mean?" Priscilla coos sweetly, knowing full well that his neck and back are the second most sensitive places on his body. He only grits his teeth in response, grunting as she caresses the area with her large fingers. Sær fights back a groan, and he loses when Priscilla rubs his shoulders and back with her thumbs, pressing deep into the weary muscle. Her hands are warm from the hot water they are in, a small pool fed by a nearby hot spring.

She adds her tail to the fray, wrapping it around his torso. Sær jumps and gasps loudly as Priscilla leans forward, nuzzling the back of his neck. She hums a random tune, and Sær joins in after listening for a minute. The two soak in the steaming water, humming as they press together.

Priscilla nudges him with her nose. "Sær?"

Sær's ears perk up. She rarely calls him by his name, instead usually opting for 'Darling.' This is pleasant in it's own way, though...

"What shall we... Well, do? Once we're wed, I mean." The idea of officially being Sær's wife sets her heart aflutter, and she blushes.

"I'm not sure. The world is a big place, even for you."

"How big is it, really?"

"Who knows? I'm sure we will, eventually. Time doesn't exist for us, being immortal."

"Do you really want to see the whole world?"

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Then yes. We've only been at this quest for a short while, and we've already made so many friends, and we still have yet to find a single person who curses your existence. Either Gwyn was lying, or you are truly something special, Priscilla Filia Gwynevere."

The two are silent for a time, before Priscilla speaks up again.

"You know, one must be wed to claim the throne... Mother has no plans to marry, and uncle Gwyndolin prefers the company of his many male consor- Ahem, Darkmoon Knights. So, if you should wish it..."

"We could be Queen Priscilla and King Sær?

As temping as that is, Anor Londo would need quite a bit of work to be a true city again, and neither of us have any experience in politics."

"I suppose so. We are already King and Queen of Darkroot Garden in our own right, thanks to your efforts, darling."

The two silently soak, only leaving once Priscilla sneezes and accidentally freezes the hot springs.

"Darling, you're taking an awfully long time to change. Perhaps you need assistance?"

Behind the curtain, Sær grins. "I would be delighted," he says, his heartbeat quickening. Suddenly, a large red wolf's head is flung over the curtain, rolling to a stop at Sær's bare feet.

"AAAGH!" Vengarl cries in mental anguish. "COVER THINE SCRAWNY FORM, THOU NAKED BUFFOON!"

"I'm not scrawny! I'm wiry!" Sær protests, tripping as he hastily tries to cover himself.

"BY THE GODS!"

The changing room becomes a hotbed of clanging, cursing, and thumping until finally Sær pulls down the cutain, ripping it from it's place and falling face first onto the ground. Vengarl hits the ground with a thud, slowly rolling and coming to a stop at Rosabeth's feet. Sær stands, cursing and brushing himself off.

Priscilla gasps.

He wears black trousers made of breathable fabric, the knees reinforced with boiled black leather pads, fastened with gold thread. He wears a short black sleeveless surcoat, his upper back, shoulders, and upper chest covered by a short black leather cloak trimmed with gold, much like Priscilla's. The cloak's collar is high, coming halfway up his neck and framing it loosely.

Priscilla begins to feel an odd heat in the pit of her stomach.

Sær tugs at the cloth, unused to being so covered. "Mnnnrgh," he whines. "Priscilla, do I have to wear thi-"

"YES!" Priscilla interrupts. "Don't you dare take it off." She stares at Sær predatorily, drooling. He steps back, worried.

"Well, if we are all finished with our errands, I believe we have a wolf to slay," Vengarl reminds them.

The group encircles the bonfire. The undead holding the dragon crossbreed princess, who holds the hand of a centuries old stoned woman, who holds the severed head of a man who was once one of the most dangerous mercenaries in existence. Sær pities the sorry sods whose party merely consists of a warrior, mage, theif and cleric.

With a deep breath, they all touch the hilt of the coiled sword, Priscilla's power dragging the two non-undead along with them through the void.


	17. Foxy Grahame-pa

"A pretty lady disappeared.

And so Grahame just sulked in his cage.

A need for friends outside his cage...

And Lady's never coming back.

So come into the cage and become Grahame's shade."

Ghrahame stares blankly into the ocean, perched atop a precipitous cliff. Not for the first time, he wishes that he had at least a semblance of control over the cage's legs, so he could skitter off the cliff and be done with this madness. His cage-mates barely even respond to stimuli, so conversation is a pipe dream. The most the withered husks can manage to do is skitter about, scrabbling mindlessly along the ground before growing still. Grahame cherishes the moments when they would stop along the oceanside. Despite the fact that his cage would sink like a stone, he dreams of swimming one day. Of feeling the cool water, the hot air, and the tase of salt and brine on his lips.

He looks at the others in his cage.

"Their humanity disappeared.

And now they're stuck in a cage...

A cage of despair, iron and rage.

And Grahame is never breaking out.

Please, come into the cage and give Grahame shade..."

Grahame falls silent, his white, shriveled skin pressing against his cage.

A flash lights up the forest, and from within he can hear voices, musical and full of life. One soft, one defiant, one slightly monotonous, and one as high and beautiful as the finest harp.

"The lady crossbreed just appeared.

But Grahame is stuck in his cage...

Move, move, he wants friends, the first in an age!

MOVE, MOVE, MOVE, OR GRAHAME WILL SCREAM AND RAGE!"

Grahame slaps his hollowed cage-mates, willing them with every fiber of his being to move forward. He shakes the cage with more strength than he thought physically possible, a withered husk rattling the cage with the force of a gale. With a groan, the cage shakes and shudders, raising up as the bodies pressed against the bottom stand and crawl as one organism. The cage wobbles as it moves, steadily ambling towards the light, and those beautiful voices so unlike the groaning ones he is subjected to constantly.

"What's that sound?"

Grahame bursts through the shrubs, stopping his cage-mates with a shaking of the bats.

"You!" Sær hisses. "You have some nerve to show your hollowed face after-"

"Sær, shush," Priscilla whispers, placing her large hand over her fiancee's mouth. "He was being flung about by a chain. What happened isn't his fault."

"He grabbed your scythe! Thanks to him, we might never get it back!"

"Sær, that's enough-"

"The Lady's scythe disappeared.

And so Grahame set out in his cage.

He needs friends outside his cage.

So Grahame went and got it back.

So reach into the cage and make a jolly trade."

He turns, showing a long, black scythe- Priscilla's- interlaced through the bars.

She reaches and grasps it, pulling it gently through the bars. The blade is clean, the shaft polished with plant oil.

"Pretty scythe for a pretty Lady," Grahame says, giving her a shaky grin. He is quite proud of himself, having broken through his madness to forgo his usual rhyme scheme. Priscilla smiles, and slides a finger through the bars.

Sær gasps. "Priscilla, don't-!" His protest is cut short by Priscilla's tail slamming into him, knocking the wind from his lungs.

She pets Grahame's head with a finger, rubbing the pale, bald skin. "Thank you," she says. "The grumpy old dragon over there is Sær. And over there is Mr. Vin-gral, and Rosabeth."

Grahame smiles, the most genuine one he has ever had in his life.

"We should get going. We have a wolf to slay," Sær huffs.

"Wolf. Another wolf did appear.

Hungry jaws clamp down on the cage.

It shall not nourish, it shall not sate.

So Sif took Grrrregh's arm."

Sær tilts his head, puzzled. "Grrrregh?"

One of the hollows raises an arm, severed at the bicep. "Grrrregh," he groans.

"You don't say," Sær says. "Tell me more."

"Grrrregh..."

"Fascinating! What else?"

Priscilla clicks her tongue, smacking him. "Behave yourself, husband." While they are not married yet, she still enjoys adressing him as if they are. She turns to the friendly Cage Spider, kneeling and bringing her face closer. "So your name is... Grahame?"

"Grahame, Grahame, cunning as a fox.

Foxy Grahame, a Grahame most foxy."

Priscilla giggles. "You have quite a deep voice, for such a little thing, mister Grahame."

"Oooooooooooooooooooohm," Grahame chants, his gravelly voice reverbating through his chest. Priscilla smiles warmly, joining in.

"Aaah-la-la-la-la-la-la!" Her voice is high and light, and Sær smiles saccharinely. Priscilla's joy is a drug he is addicted to.

Grahame falls silent, out of breath. "Sif..." He struggles to fight through the fog of his hollowed mind. "Sif... Grahame... Grahame can draw Sif away... Elswise, untouchable he'll stay... Fighting one, to him, is mere play."

"You can help us?" Priscilla says. "Thank you, mister Grahame." She pets him with her finger again, and Sær shifts, hungry for her affection.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The odd troupe walks down a narrow clearing of rock and vine. their footsteps making a queer chorus. Priscilla's shoes make a gentle but heavy tap, tap, clack, clack, while Sær's make a light tep tep tep.

The bulk of the noise comes from Grahame, his skittering limbs making roach-like clicks. The group comes upon a clearing, the bright moonlight blinding them as the step into it. Their eyes adjust, and the clearing comes into view.

A massive headstone stands tall in the center, and equally massive greatsword resting against it, a thin ring resting on the hilt.

A deafening howl echoes around the clearing, seemingly emanating from everywhere at once. A thud shakes the ground, and the group look up. A shadow rests atop the headstone, the growling originating from it. The clouds part, and the moonlight shines across the form of a massive wolf.

"Sif," Sær breathes. Two rings, each set with a green stone, dangle from his ears. He is as big to Priscilla as a normal wolf is to Sær. Throwing his head back, Sif lets out a mournful howl, slowly clamping his jaws around the sword resting against the headstone.

Rosabeth fastens Vengarl to Særs shoulder while he draws his broadsword and parry push-dagger and Priscilla draws her scythe. Grahame ambles up, prepared to circle and draw Sif's attention.

"Another wolf will disappear."


	18. The Corpse Bride-to-be

"Meat, meat! Tasty Grahame, tasty treat! Grahame strafes around Sif, drawing his attention while Priscilla lunges forth with short jabs. He jumps back, quickly dismissing Grahame as a minimal threat. Sær dashes towards him, low to the ground, making a slash at his front paws. Sif flips high in the air, plunging downward and slicing through Sær's side, the blade passing through and burying itself in the ground.

Sær rolls away, chugging estus. His wound smokes and pops, sealing up in a matter of seconds, the scar disappearing not long after. Wasting no time, he and Priscilla flank the massive wolf, and Grahame skitters to his front while pelting his snout with clumps of sod. He swings his greatsword at Priscilla, who tailsprings to the side, slashing at him. The tip of her scythe catches his ear, cutting the edge. The ring embedded in it tumbles out, and Sær rolls over it to snatch it. Sif snarls, swinging viciously at Priscilla. She catches the blow with her shaft, but the force sends her tumbling. Sær attempts to cover her, slashing at his snout. Sif deftly jumps back, landing on his hind legs. He coils them, and with a growl he launches high into the air.

Time slows for Sær. He sees the arc, the flash of steel. He sees the wolf plunging down.

He sees his fiancé run through.

The sound she makes cuts through Sær's heart. His entire being feels as if it is dropping through his legs into the ground. Priscilla writhes, clutching her midsection. Her cry is shrill and loud, almost a squawk. Her legs thrash a final time, and she stills. Her panting grows weaker, quieter. There are no tearful words, no goodbyes. No pleading no anger.

Crossbreed Priscilla grows still, and her body bursts into a cloud of mist and souls.

Sær stands still, slowly sheathing hihis sword. He calmly unfastens the sheath, letting it drop to the ground. His stare is blank, his eyes unseeing. Even as Sif pins him to the ground, he doesn't respond. His heart beats evenly, his eyes are glazed. He has hollowed, not in body, but in spirit.

Sif raises his head high, poised to bring his sword down into Sær. "Pull yourself together, you fool!" Vengarl yells.

The ground shakes, and Sær hears the swish of soft cloth.

He looks to the side to see Priscilla charging towards them. But that can't be, Sær thinks. She's gone. She left him.

Priscilla swings her scythe around her head, gaining momentum. She brings it down hard, and the blade glides past Sif's snout, the shaft smacking him in the nose.

"NO!" She cries, smacking his snout again. "BAD! BOY!" She smacks his nose with each syllable, the shaft of the scythe leaving large welts. "YOU-Bonk-DON'T-Bonk-EAT-Bonk-MY-Bonk-HUSBAND! Bonk! BAD!"

The final strike makes a loud smack, and Sif drops his greatsword, cowering on the ground while covering his snout with his paws, whimpering.

Priscilla slams her scythe into the ground, her other hand on her hip. "Eating people is bad!" She scolds him, poking his forehead with her finger. Sær watches the exchange in awe.

"Priscilla? You're... Alive?"

She sighs, mock-exasperated. "Do I look dead, Sær?"

Sær smiles weakly. "You are rather pale."

She flicks his head, then leans forward to hug him. "You think you are the only undead in the world?"

"But I was chosen. The last thing I remember was touching the bonfire and waking up in the undead asylum."

"And dost thou recall how I lost mine fluffy visage?" She asks, playfully using Olde-Speake.

"Fire-eth?"

"Correct-eth." They both laugh, squeezing each other. Priscilla reaches into her dress, pulling out a large slab of meat wrapped in leaves. She holds it out to Sif. "Do you promise to be good?" She asks him. He whines in what Priscilla assumes is agreement. "Good." She unwraps the thick piece of meat, placing it in front of his nose.

He looks up tentatively, Snaking out his tongue to taste it. Seemingly safe, he starts ripping into it with big, hungry bites while Priscilla pats his bruised head with one hand, rubbing Sær's head with the other. Sær hums contentedly, the closest he can get to purring, while nuzzling the soft silk of her dress. "Lean back," she commands Sif. He complies, obediently laying down in front of his new mistress and master.

Priscilla scoots forward, cuddling up to Sif.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Sær asks. "He did just kill you."

"He will not try anything." She pokes Sif's cheek. "Will you, mister Sif?" He whimpers in response. "Good," she says, leaning back down against him. The trio close their eyes, resting after the ardous battle.

Vingarl's mouth hangs open, still attached to Særs shoulder. Rosabeth stares in disbelief. Grahame slowly scuttles up to them, equally stunned.

"What the shite...?"


	19. Curiosity and Her Cat

The group dozes lightly, housed comfortably in Priscilla and Sær's house at Firelink Shrine. Sær is wrapped around Sif's tail, mistaking it for Priscilla's in his dreams. It's currently wet from him smooching it. Rosabeth snoozes reclined in a large chair, Vengarl on her lap. Grahame is in his cage, having fallen asleep like a parrot the moment Priscilla put a blanket over it.

The largest of the group, however, is currently wide awake, her ears perked up while listening for movement.

Hearing none, Priscilla gets up and pads to the opposite side of the room, suprisingly stealthily for a thirteen-and-a-quarter foot tall woman. She kneels down at the corner, gently prying away a loose stone in the floor. Underneath is a book, a thick tome featuring pictures of dragons, humans, and their various bits and pieces.

Clutching the book to her chest, she creeps past the others into her reading nook on the other side of the house. Lighting a lamp with a click of her fingers, (a trick all undead possess to light bonfires) she kneels in the corner. Opening the first page, she raises a surprised horn-brow at the message on the first page.

For my daughter Priscilla, so that she may learn to produce young for my experi-

Priscilla angrily rips the page off, burning it in the lamp. She goes back to reading.

I have put many hours of research into the understanding of crossbreeds, extrapolating it to a dragon-goddess hybrid.

It is quite rude of you to rip the pages off of this book, despite it being made for you.

Go sit in the corner as penance.

Priscilla's face goes red with fury. Her father truly was a cold, calculating bastard, and it's made worse by the fact that he predicted her so easily. Sitting by the wall just to spite him, she starts reading.

Given the God's retreat from Lordran, it is unlikely that a suitably holy mate will be present. While deplorable and ultimately useless, humans would prove invaluable in the production of a mate. If my hypothesis is correct, (and it usually is) The the size of the genetalia is inversely proportionate to the size of the parents. For example, My daughter's would almost certainty be proportionate to that of a human's, pictured in diagram 1.1:

Priscilla studies the picture closely, a blush beginning to spread across her cheeks. "Well, it certainly does look like mine," she mutters.

Seeing as humans are simple, perverse creatures, the mere presence of a female crossbreed will be enough to draw in the males. Once engaged in the act of reproduction, the male usually requires no special attention. Doing so, however, will greatly increase the chance of conception.

See diagram 1.2 for the male genetalia anatomy. The chart is rated by sensitivity of the specified area.

Priscilla's face is aflame now. She makes a small squeak as she looks at the diagram, morbidly fascinated by the picture. She had always assumed it would look like a front-tail, but never anything like this.

"I wonder if Sær's looks like this..." She whispers.

I have researched positions that factor in size difference while still retaining high conception probability. Positions are recommended to be changed every five to ten minutes to ensure optimum results. Skip to diagram 1.4 to see illustrations.

"Oh, goodness," Priscilla whispers, tail curling in on itself. The clinical nature of her father's explanation is both off-putting and arousing.

By inserting the Man-Serpent Greatsword into the maw of the Gaping Dragon and inflicting thrust damage, the male will release a mass of souls into the female's abyss, thus transforming her into an Egg Burdened. See diagram 1.3 for detailed instructions.

"Oh!" Priscilla says. "His- how could she..? 'Tis impossible! Su-Such an act would...

A-and to fit!Oh my- looks so painful! That! I! What-I can't! This is so...!"

She takes deep breaths to calm herself.

"I cannot falter now! Soon, Sær and I are to be wed, and I cannot fail him."

She skips to the center of the book.

And so, by inserting my Crystal halberd into Gwynevere's Abyss, you were created, as per her desire. Do not be alarmed by any noises either of you may make. Your mother was quite the screamer when we were-

"OH MY GOD!" Priscilla shrieks, flinging the book out the window. The sound of crashing glass awakens the others, and Sær comes sprinting in.

"Priscilla! Are you alright?! What happened?!"

"Oh, I, I-I-I um, well... I... Saw Patches! Yes that's it, Patches! He was staring in the window with that trout-face of his!" She stammers. She hasn't had much experience in insulting people, and it shows.

"I'm going to throw him off a cliff in the morning," Sær mutters. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, fine!" Priscilla replies. "Get some rest, darling."

"Aaaaaah-kay," Sær says, yawning.

As he walks back to bed, Priscilla can't help staring at him a little more than usual.


	20. Eros' Plummet

As the rest of the group ready themselves to travel to the New Londo ruins, Sær attempts to fix the window.

Strangely enough, there were ripped pieces of paper speared by the glass shards. Had she thrown a book at patches? His eyes trail along the cliff, where bits of shredded paper lay, soggy from morning dew. Sær slides down the cliff, landing with a stumble and a curse. There, resting against a rock, it's pages fluttering in the wind, was a book.

Sær picks it up gingerly, and the book flops open to the hundredth page.

Your tail and you

When you get older, as your body starts to change you may notice your tail acting strangely. Our tails are a valuable way of communicating our 'feelings.' As you grow into a young dragoness, your tail will begin curling in on itself whenever you experience sexual attraction. It may happen when you look at a fire, another dragon, or even a particularly large lizard.

Sær stares at the diagrams before slowly flipping back to the beginning of the book.

There are numerous illustrations depicting various acts. Sær's mouth hangs open as he sits down and starts reading...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"How long does it take to fix a window? That sappy buffoon better not be slacking off." Vengarl frowns, suspicious of his friend's abscence.

Priscilla smiles apologetically. "Darling can be a layabout... He had fallen asleep three times within the first day of our meeting! Sometimes I wonder about that man..."

"I still say you're lucky," Rosabeth chimes in. "Sær's a talented warrior, and he's sturdy, to boot! Not to mention," she whispers conspiratorially, "He's dead sexy~!"

A vein bulges in Priscilla's temple, and the spare sword she was packing snaps in two from her grip. Rosabeth gulps. "Um... B-but don't worry about me! I already have my big, strong, Vengarl~," she coos mockingly, running a finger along his helm's snout.

"Feh! Even I have standar-"

Rosabeth tosses him into the air, punting him down the cliff. Grahame whistles.

"Gooooooaaaaaalllll!"

Rosabeth turns to Priscilla. "I-"

"Grrrrrrrrr-rurrrr!" Priscilla growls, baring her cute little fangs. Rosabeth squeaks.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sær, engrossed in his 'Crossbreed anatomy research,' failed to notice the body-less mercenary flying down the cliff.

Vengarl, engrossed in the act of plummeting down a cliff, failed to notice the handsome (in his opinion) macrophile.

Not that either of them could do much to prevent the impending blow to their respective craniums.

CRUH-CLSHNK

The two friends collide, a symphony of crunching bone and clanging steel echoing off the cliff.

Sær massages his damaged skull, taking a swig of estus and then offering some to Vengarl. He swallows it gratefully, neither man questioning where the liquid went.

"That stony bitch," Vengarl curses. "To be stuck with a teenaged pyromancer with a sadistic streak... What have I done to deserve this? Don't answer that, Sær!"

Sær slowly puts his hand down.

"What the hell are you doing down here, you lazy fool?!" Vengarl growls. "You know Priscilla gets agitated when you leave for more than an hour!"

"So do I!" Sær replies. "But this is important! Our wedding night is coming up and I-" his voice drops to a loud whisper. "I don't know what to do."

"Your age, and still a virgin? What the he-"

"I'm not a virgin! But girls like Priscilla are a special case. I..." He sighs. "What if... What if we can't...? Or if I'm too... O-or-"

"Enough. Just read your damn book and stop talking about it!"

By the time Sær has finished his 'research' and clambered up the cliff, Priscilla's tail is bruised from being wrung from stress.

The moment Sær's head pokes over the ledge, Priscilla lunges for him.

"GET OVER HERE!" She yells, her tail shooting out like a whip. Sær yelps as his arm is snatched and he is lifted bodily by the fluffy appendage. She grabs him and holds him aloft by his shoulders. "Do you have any idea how worried I was, you stupid man?! I nearly rubbed the fur off my tail, I was so worried! How did you even manage to leave me for so long?! The last time I went for a walk and got lost, you practically had a panic attack!" Her tail smacks his face repeatedly. "You stupid darling!!" She sniffles, her lips pursed to keep herself from crying.

"It was Vengarl's fault," Sær says shakily.

"WHAT?! It was Rosabeth's fault! She kicked me off the cliff!"

Rosabeth jumps. "Wha- it- um, uh, it-it-it was Grahame's fault!"

"Come into the cage and say that, you bitch."

The entire group paused and looked at the friendly cage spider, jaws agape.

"Grahame means... It was Lady Priscilla's fault."

And just like that, the argument dissolved into peals of laughter.


	21. Saviors

A.N. With thanks to Dead Pann.

"Darling, who is this?"

Priscilla kneels down in front of a small cage set on the rock, just outside the lift to New Londo. Inside rests a gaunt, yet pretty young woman. Thick robes hang off her slim frame, yet it is still apparent that she was quite curvy when she was healthy.

"That," Sær replies, "Is Anastacia, Firelink Shrine's Firekeeper. Her tongue was cut off for questioning her duty. I've since healed it with estus, but..." He shakes his head. "She doesn't like to talk. Whoever raised her as a Firekeeper conditioned her into accepting her fate, and she refuses to leave her ce-what are you doing?!"

Priscilla rolls up her sleeves, grasping the two middle bars. "Hhhhhnggg..." She strains, her cute face turning red with exertion. A groan emits from the bars, and Anastacia scuttles to the corner of her cell, pulling her hood up and wrapping her arms around her knees. The bars make a horrible screetching sound, and the dust falls from the ceiling of the little cave-cell.

Priscilla gives a dragon-like roar, and the bent bars snap from their place in the rock. Adrenaline pumping, Priscilla rips the remaining bars away until there is a large space. Reaching through the bars, she grabs Anastacia around the middle, her large hand almost able to wrap around the girl's skinny waist. The gaunt firekeeper shrieks, convinced that she is going to be eaten by a giant dragon-woman.

Priscilla yanks her through the bars and holds her at arms length. She brings her up to her mouth, and Anastacia squeezes her eyes shut, preparing for the end.

Instead, she feels a large pair of soft, warm lips on her cheek. Her eyes open. Is she being tasted? Sampled? Is she playing with her prey, the way a cat would?

Priscilla pulles her lips away and wraps the girl in a tight hug. Her wings cover the girl, and Priscilla cradles her head against her chest. It would seem that Anastacia isn't on the menu.

"I need you," Priscilla says, "to look after our house while we're gone. No more cell, okay? I forbid you from going back in there."

The woman nods frantically, still in shock. The wind blows against her face directly for the first time in years, and she breathes in deeply, taking in the scent of the forest, the shrine, and the pure-hearted dragon-woman who freed her.

Priscilla stomps over to her home, flinging open the large door and depositing Anastacia on the crossbreed-sized bed.

"There's plenty of food in the storeroom," Priscilla says. "And the library is over there." She feels a strange kinship with the firekeeper. Two women, cursed from birth and hidden away, both taught to resign to their fate. Priscilla wasn't about to let the girl spend another minute in that cell.

She tucks Anastacia into the covers, planting another kiss on her cheek before walking out the door.

She pauses, her head peeking in through the door. "No cell!" She says sternly. Anastacia can only nod slowly, still in shock.

The crossbreed is long gone by the time Anastacia whispers quietly into the bed.

"Thank you... Miss Dragon."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Grahame reclines comfortably on his cage-mate, watching the ruined architecture of New Londo amble by. Vengarl rests comfortably on a pillow, while Rosabeth burns passing twigs with her pyromancy.

The squeak of wooden wheels clacking against the mossy cobblestone is pleasant to listen to, and Sif yawns as he effortlessly pulls the carriage along.

Priscilla mirrors him, yawning with a yowl as she lazily cuts Darkwraiths in half.

Rosabeth huffs in annoyance, dramatically flopping down over a sack of rations. "Are all adventures truly this boring?!"

The others are silent, ignoring the irate pyromancer. For someone who was a stone husk for decades, she is remarkably impatient.

The morning sun soon rises high in the sky, and the group settles down for a hearty brunch. Priscilla fishes several fish out of the icebox, puffing frost breath into it to keep the rest of their rations preserved.

Grahame and his cage-mates quickly set to cleaning the fish, their combined sending scales and skin flying. Each time a fish has been cleaned, it is tossed to Rosabeth, who begins cooking it with her pyromancy flame. Priscilla tosses raw fish into the air, and Sif darts forward, catching each of them and swallowing them whole.

Sær readies the plates and utensils before gathering wood so that they may have a fire while they eat.

It takes all of five minutes for them to prepare two dozen-and-one fish. A dozen for Priscilla, seven for Grahame and his cage-mates, one for Vengarl, two for Rosabeth and three for Sær. Sif has a dozen raw.

In another three minutes, the fish have been properly salted and seasoned and Sær has brewed pine-needle-and-mint tea.

The courtyard is quiet save for the sound of clinking metal and the occasional moan from Priscilla as she enjoys her fish. Fish are her favorite after all, and it was rare for her to catch one in Ariamis. Her tail flicks back and forth, and she closes her eyes and smiles as she chews. Sif wolfed down his portion first, with Sær close behind. Tummy full and eyes drooping, he curls up in Priscilla's lap, her ample thighs providing a wonderful bed. Her tail comes around to rest on top of him, and he wraps his arms around the fluffy mass, nuzzling it.

Once everyone was finished and the dishes were all scrubbed, the troupe packed up and set off, making their way ever downward. The light slowly dissapates as they progress, and they are eventually forced to abandon the wagon. The Darkwraiths are clustered more densely in the dark, dismal underbelly of the ruined city, and soon they become too much for Priscilla to handle. Sær joins the fray, whirling and flipping like a madman, his twin Khopeshs' snaking out and hooking his prey, dragging it into his other blade with incredible force. Rosabeth casts a light high above them, disorienting the Darkwraiths and providing aid to the others. Sif flings the humanity-draining fiends around like chew toys, flinging them in all directions.

By the time the last of them is struck down, the group is panting and dripping with sweat. Heaps of bodies lie on the floor, with an errant twitch or a death throe being the only movement.

The group silently trudges forward, weary, but satisfied. In the distance, a dark light illuminates an archway, defying all reason.

"The Abyss," Sær and Priscilla whisper in unison. They both pull Sif's earrings out of their respective pouches. Priscilla slides hers onto her tail, and Sær slides it onto his wrist. Priscilla's tail wraps around Sær's arm, and he squeezes it reassuringly.

The two take a deep breath, and step across the veil of darkness.

There, in the middle of a sea of black, rests the corpses of the four kings. Atop them, a slender, feminine form with snakes for legs below his thighs.

"Gosh," he says, his light, feminine voice harboring a slight lisp. "What took you so long, silly?"

A.N. Wedding next chapter!


	22. A Joyous Day For All

A.N. Fair warning, this chapter is going to be awkward. Sweet, but awkward.

"Oooooh, Priscilla, I'm so excited for you!"

Gwynevere squeals, lifting Priscilla and hugging her tight, and Priscilla struggles as her face is pressed into her mother's breasts. She gasps, pulling away. "Is this what it's like for you?" She asks Sær.

"Pretty much," he replies as Priscilla is set down.

Gwynevere beams. "Oh! I almost forgot." She reaches behind her throne, pulling out a large box. "I've been working on this since the day I discovered I was pregnant with you." She hands it to Priscilla.

She slowly opens it, pulling out a pristine white bridal gown. It resembles Gwynevere's outfit, with ornate ribbons to wrap around her body. Over top of that is a full-body veil, which falls down in layers. At the bottom of the box is a large orchid. "That," says Gwynevere, picking it up betwixt forefinger and thumb, "Is an everlasting orchid. It's traditionally given to goddesses on their wedding day. Whenever you are close to your husband, the flower will bloom." She pulls a small, silver orchid from the box. "I know flowers aren't exactly manly~," she coos to Sær. "So I had the royal smiths craft this." She reaches out, clumsily fastening it to his neck with a black, braided leather chain.

"The orchid was dipped in high quality molten titanite."

Oooh, Sær looks so dashing in that!

Sær jumps as Priscilla's voice fills his head, letting out a startled yelp. Gwynevere giggles. "Both orchids were grown from the ash of the same bonfire," she says. "Just like the bonfires are connected, so too are these flowers. Any two undead who hold these flowers can communicate with each other, no matter how far apart they may be." She winks at him.

Sær closes his eyes in concentration.

I think your mother likes me a little too much.

Don't get a swelled head, Priscilla replies.

I won't. She's swollen enough for both of us.

Priscilla giggles. All she does is lay around eating grapes. Her posterior has grown so rotund that it makes Executioner Smough look like a stick!

The two giggle furiously as Gwynevere looks on suspiciously.

"Forevermore, from the- thine- thee... Um..."

Gwyndolin sighs. "No! Why is this so hard for you? 'Forevermore, from thine breath today on to the breath before everlasting rest at heavenly hights, I swear my soul to you, be it dark or light.' Now you."

"I swear... Souls of... No, wait. Forevermore, when you breathe, and, and die, then... Aaaagh!" Sær exclaims frustratedly, scratching his head angrily. "How am I supposed to remember this? It's boooooorrring!"

One of Gwyndolin's snakes darts out and nips him on the navel. "Ow!"

"Keep up your whining and I'll bite even lower," he snaps.

Gwynevere sighs. "Don't take out your anger on the boy just because Ornstein hasn't been tending to your needs lately, Gwynny."

Gwyndolin flushes furiously. "That's none of your buisness! And don't call me that!"

"Gwynny."

He bites his lower lip, choking back a scream. "What about you?! Not all of us have a pet Mimic to pleasure us whenever we please!"

"I-I-I, such slanderous-! And I would never, y-you lie!"

"Oh please. I can hear you moaning all the way from my room, and that mimic giggle haunts my nightmares! Will you lay with anything with a giant tongue, woman?!"

Sær slowly backs away with Priscilla, both with a look of disgust on their faces.

"Guh-ha-huh."

A giggle emanates from behind a pillar and a lanky Mimic steps out from behind it.

Gwynevere gasps. "Chester, go back to your cage! Bad!"

Chester slinks away sulkily.

Gwynevere spots Sær and Priscilla backing away, looking at her. "It-it's not what you think!" She cries. "I mean, Seath stopped visiting decades ago, and a woman has needs, and there's no one else here except Smough, but who would do such a thing with him?! And then I foud this mimic wandering the halls and hewassosweetandhewasalwayssogentleandiwassolonely- Wait!"

Priscilla and Sær run full tilt down the hall.

"Let's... Forget that ever happened," Priscilla says, shuddering. The sun has just started its long descent, and it beats down upon the cobblestone, making the many winding rooftops pleasantly warm. Priscilla pads across the angled rooftops, barefoot in a simple, sleeveless yellow dress. Sær walks along farther up so he is eye-to-eye with his lovely fiancée.

"Forget what happened?"

"Mother and her mimic lov- oh." She giggles.

The two walk in companionable silence, hopping fearlessly across ledges and gaps, jumping and rolling from stone balconies and climbing up towers using the moldings and window ledges as handholds. The Grand Archives of Lothric are truly a sight to behold, a paean of gothic architecture.

Priscilla clasps her hands behind her back, her bare feet padding the roof tiles as she walks. "I'm really excited for us to get married," she says quietly. "I'm scared, as well, and I don't even know why!" She giggles.

Sær smiles warmly, taking her tail and guiding her to the center of the roof. The very top of the archives is hundreds of feet tall, and anyone looking from the cobblestone streets below would see the couple as a speck. By now the sun is an amber orange, throwing golden light across the rooftops. "I know we're already getting married," he says, squeezing her tail. "But there's this tradition that... I..."

He breathes deeply before dropping to one knee, reaching into a large pouch on his belt.

"Priscilla Filia Gwynevere," He says, pulling out a long, ornate gold bracelet. "Princess of Ariamis, Anor Londo, and Darkroot City...

"Will you marry me?"

Tears roll down Priscilla's cheek, freezing as they reach her chin. She nods, unable to speak without her voice breaking. Sær slides the bracelet onto her tail, and it twitches as he slides it on. The criss-crossed gold band rests two-thirds from the base of her tail, and it wags happily, the tail-band holding steady. Her eyes close as she basks in the glow of the sun, enjoying the pleasurable squeeze of her wedding band. She truly does feel like a princess.

Sær uses the base of her tail as a step, climbing up to her shoulder and wrapping his arms around her neck. In a flash, they're off, dashing across the rooftops back to Anor Londo.

They return to find Gwyndolin leaning against a cracked stone wall, with Gwynevere on the opposite side of the room with dozens of snake bite marks on the exposed areas of her skin.

"Are they alright?" Sær asks worriedly. "With all the trouble we went to to free him, if he's dead then I'll kill him!"

"How? He'd already be dead."

"Yes, but... Oh."

Priscilla walks over to Gwyndolin, picking him up gently. "From the way mother tells it, they have been fighting since they were quite young." She tucks her neck-length hair behind her ear. "I think uncle Gwyndolin is jealous of mother," she whispers. "He was raised as a girl, same as her, but nobody ever paid attention to him."

"Let's get him to bed," Sær replies. "We need to rest, too. Tomorrow is a big day, after all."

"The biggest day," Piscilla corrects him.

"Are you going to be okay? With being in front of all those people, I mean. Every single person we rescued from Darkroot Forest will be there, about six hundred in all."

She smiles, leaning down and nuzzling his ear. "It's not the crowd I'll be watching," she whispers. Her tail curls up, and Sær gulps.

"Now," she says, setting Gwyndolin down on his bed. "Apparently it's tradition that the bride and groom don't see each other on the eve of their wedding, so... I suppose this is where we part ways."

Sær nods. "Alright."

"Will you be okay sleeping by yourself? Since we met, we haven't slept apart in...

Well, ever."

"I'll cast a sleeping miracle if I have to."

"Please. Your faith isn't even strong to light a candle." She fishes out a small vial from her dress, handing it to Sær. "Take this sleeping potion. I knew you would have trouble sleeping, so I purchased this from the apothecary."

He takes the small purple vial, noticing that it's in the shape of a heart. "Thank you, Priscilla." He smiles, staring at the floor in embarrassment. "Thanks for always taking care of me."

Priscilla beams. "Always." She turns walking to the end of the hall before turning around. "I love you! See you tomorrow, Husband!"

Sær blushes, turning to walk to his room.

Priscilla crouches down and buries her face in her hands, her face redder than a Hellkite Drake.

Sær carefully uncorks the heart shaped vial, bringing it to his lips. It tastes of parmesean and olive oil, a taste he had grown to love during his time in coastal towns, where pasta and fish were always the meals of the day. The smell that wafts from the bottle is of fur and chill winter air, Sær's favorite smell. The reason is obvious.

Sær, how is that potion working? The Everlasting Orchid around his neck glows, and Priscilla's soft, high voice fills his head.

I just drank it, Sær replies. It tastes like my favorite food, and it smells like you. Did you have it custom made?

All the ones on the shelves were yucky tasting, and I know you're a picky eater, so...

Sær smiles. Sometimes I think you care about me too much. You don't need to go through so much trouble, you know?

But helping you makes me feel all tingly, Priscilla replies nervously. A-and when I try to make you happy and you b-become happy, your happiness makes m-me happy...

I feel the same way, Sær says. I... Uh...

Sær?

Sær yawns. I think... Sleeping drink... Kicking in... G'night.

Priscilla can't keep the smile out of her voice. See you tomorrow... Darling.

Sær was never an overly nervous person. He never really cared enough about anything to worry much at all. But he had never had a real relationship before he met Priscilla, so he was doomed to be unprepared for the anxiety.

Sær clutches his outfit, the one Priscilla commissioned for him in Majula. It's opulent enough that it would serve perfectly for wedding attire.

Leaning against the wall, his head swims, and his heartbeat thuds in his ears. "Nervous?" Vengarl inquires.

"I don't think I can do this," Sær pants. "My knees are too weak to walk down the aisle."

"Slap yourself for me," Vengarl growls. "A half-Dragon, half-Goddess princess, daughter of a princess and a duke, who is gorgeous and strong to boot, and you can't walk a hundred yards to meet her?! Pull you self together, man!"

Sær looks at him sideways. "What the hell is a yard? Is that like a meter?"

"Yes, except better. Now find your footing! The ceremony starts in half an hour!"

Sær sighs. "I wonder how Priscilla is doing..."

"Relax, Priscilla. You've been with this boy for decades. There's no reason to be nervous!"

"I was only awake for three months through those years, mother! And how would you know?! You've never even been married!"

"I was going to marry Seath, but he said having a wife would interfere with his research."

"You have horrible taste in men."

"Seath was sweet! But boy, was he rough when he wanted to be~..."

"Stop stop stop! I already feel sick enough as it is."

"You shouldn't be nervous. It only hurts for the first hour. Of course, Seath is a dragon, so for me it hurt for Days~"

"Oh my god!"

The great hall is packed to bursting, with well over a thousand people, all chattering excitedly as they wait for the ceremony to begin. The whole of Darkroot City is there, having quite literally crawled out of the woodwork. Humans from throughout the city left the sanctity of their homes for the first time in weeks, the streets safe once again thanks to Gwyndolin keeping the demons at bay with his magic. While royalty hasn't meant much for a long time, the wedding still holds a certain gravitas, a hope that one day the land will once again be the bustling metropolis at the heart of human advancement.

The sound of the orchestra tuning up fills the great hall, and the crowd goes silent. The thrum of the strings gradually dies down, and an eerie silence fills the hall as the crowd waits with baited breath.

The enchanting sound of a deep bass reverbates through the chests of those in the crowd. It emits a baleful melody, gradually turning lighter, and after two bars a violin joins in. The sound of Canon in D major fills the air, and the two remaining violins pick up as well. A harp strums along, accenting every fourth note, giving the song a joyous tone.

The door at the top of the west staircase opens, and Sær walks out nervously, his steps shaky yet purposeful. He descends the stairs, his short cloak fluttering with each step. Wherever he looks through the crowd, he sees nothing but proud, happy faces. Some crying, some good-naturedly jealous, but all of them joyous. Reaching the small altar placed on the steps to Gwynevere's chamber, he steps up and turns to face the east staircase.

As the song reaches it's crescendo, the large door swings open, and Sær gasps.

Even from this distance, he can tell that Priscilla is unbelievably gorgeous, even more so than usual. Her face is beaming with joy, excitement, and anxiety, but her steps are steady. Her white bridal heels clack along the stone, and her full-body veil sways as she descends. As she reaches the walkway to the altar, Sær witnesses her dress in all it's glory. The gold-laced white silk wraps around her body elegantly, and her long skirt trails behind her, open at the front from the mid-thigh down.

Flawlessly timed, the music ends just as Priscilla stops at the altar and turns to face her soon-to-be husband.

Gwyndolin flows down the steps in his standard white dress, his snakes gliding over the stone. He has a faint smile as he clears his throat and begins speaking, his voice amplified by magic.

"Dearly beloved, we gather here today to honor the union of a most unlikely pair. To honor a man whose love transcends worlds, appearances, and species. To honor a woman brave enough to abandon all she had ever known, all in the name of love. These two individuals have braved a great many trials with and without each other. If their love can withstand such hardships, then it seems a crime for them to not be recognized by gods and men. Therefore, I have deemed them worthy of the most sacred bond I can bestow; matrimony. And now, as is tradition, the bride and groom will recite their vows."

He turns to them each and gives them a warm smile. Sær shuffles nervously, running his vows through his head before finally speaking.

"Priscilla. It was in another world, battered and exhausted, that I found you. You gave me warmth, shelter, and safety, despite not knowing a thing about me. Since then, you have never ceased to aid me, and I know that I would be nowhere without you."

Priscilla gives him a tearful smile, clearing her throat. "Sær," she starts, her voice quivering. "Though I have been shunned my whole life, you immediately saw me as a woman, and a friend. You are kind, brave, and loving, more so than anyone else. You freed me from prisons both physical and emotional; your kindness has allowed me to truly live my life for the first time. I want to spend the life you gave me, with you. Always."

Gwyndolin smiles, launching into the final step of the ceremony. He clears his throat once more before speaking. "Having heard the true and honest love these two have expressed, I believe, without a shadow of a doubt, that their love shall last as long as time itself. Despite this, I would hear the proclamation from thine own lips; Do both of you swear, in sickness and health, times both good and bad, through the coldest winter or the hottest summer, to be true to one another for the rest of your days?"

"I do," the couple reply in unison."

"Then I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Priscilla leans down, lifting her veil with trembling hands. Sær grasps her face lovingly.

The two press together in a tearful, joyous kiss, and the hall erupts in cheering, every man, woman and child chanting and shouting their happines for the two. The crowd surges forward, the men lifting Sær and carrying him up the steps. The woman push at Priscilla's calves, pushing her along. After much cheering, stumbling, and whistling, the newly wed pair stand in front of the doors to the royal bedchamber. Unwilling to let the two linger any longer, the crowd pushes them through the doors and into the room.

The crowd recedes, the men chanting encouragement and advice to Priscilla as the women giggle and counsel Sær. The last chant to be heard is a chorus of cursing, jealous remarks from both sexes, before the large door slams shut. The draft from the action blows out a handful of candles, the room still well lit by the hundreds of remaining ones.

Behind her back, Priscilla's tail curls.

A.N. Consumation next chapter!


	23. Consumation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tasteful lemon ahead.

The two lovers stare at the bed, a looming sense of finality hanging in the air around it.

"Well... I suppose we should..." Priscilla starts nervously.

Sær shifts anxiously. "Yes..."

"D-do you want to?"

"Of course! I, I mean, if-if-if you..." Sær gulps. Now that the moment has finally come, initiating it seems much more intimidating.

Priscilla nods. "What... How should we

s-start? I know t-th-the basics from a book... An educational one! Not the other kind. I, what feels, um, for you, when we, will you... B-because I want to make you good feel! Ehm, I-I-I mean, f-feel... Good..."

She looks to be on the verge of tears.

Sær holds her tail, squeezing it reassuringly. "I love you, Priscilla. We don't have to do anything if you're not comfortable. We can take things at your pace." He smiles at her.

Her lower lip trembles. "Oh, Sær..." She kneels down, wrapping him in a tender embrace and gently placing her lips against his. They kiss passionately, so much so that Priscilla feels dizzy from the pleasure. Losing her balance, she topples onto the bed, taking Sær with her. The two continue, only stopping for a much-needed breath. "Haah," she pants. "Darling... Can you... H-help me with my dress?"

Sær nods. She sits up, and with trembling fingers, he unlaces her full-body veil. Priscilla shrugs her shoulders, and the dress flows off her torso in a waterfall of silk. Her back is pale and pristine, exquisitely toned. Sær rubs it reverently, and his wife sighs happily. The two lay upon the enormous feather bed, sighing happily as they embrace.

Priscilla purrs as Sær wriggles closer to her, kissing her neck. Slowly, her tail begins to curl in on itself. The movement doesn't escape Sær, and he smirks at her. "Does that excite you?"

Priscilla notices her tail, and quickly buries her face in her hands. "I'm s-s-s-sorry! I'm not -I shouldnt- please don't think I'm a naughty jezebel!"

"A what now?"

Priscilla doesn't answer, prompting Sær to sigh fondly. "Priscilla, it's alright to feel like this. You don't have to be embarrassed about your body or your desires."

"I can't help it," she whimpers.

An idea forms in Særs head. Gently unwrapping the wide strips of cloth that make up her dress, he gathers it, folds it, and lovingly ties it on Priscilla's head, obscuring her vision. "There. Don't think about what's happening. Don't think about where we are. Don't think about who we are. We're not Priscilla and Sær. We're just two people, loving each other. No more, no less."

Priscilla nods, taking a shaky breath. She nods once more, signaling to Sær that she's ready. He lays down gently along her stomach, gently rubbing between her legs. She hisses and whimpers at the contact, mouth open slightly. Peppering kisses around her navel, Sær reaches up to gently caress her chest. She lets out another moan, rubbing her legs together as her lover reaches a hand down to stroke her pert rear. Growing bold, he delicately rubs between her legs with his other hand. The entire experience is new to him, as he only has vague memories of making love before he became undead.

By the fourth minute, Priscilla is mewling, and the both of them are more aroused than they've ever been in their lives. She whimpers wantonly, raising her hips and pushing up against Sær. Taking deep breaths, she slowly removes her blindfold, the pleasure washing away any doubt or embarrassment she has. Leaning forward, she kisses Sær deeply, and his patience finally snaps. Pulling away from her lips, he quickly removes the rest of his clothes. Every fiber of his being is screaming at him to mate with her, and his mind has turned hazy, unable to restrain his needs any longer.

He lines himself up between her legs, breathing hard. Unbidden, her tail snakes up to wrap around his torso, and without pause, it pulls him towards her, his length sinking to her to the hilt. Priscilla lets out an animalistic yowl of pain and pleasure, a sharp stinging pain emanating from her maidenhead. They hold still, eyes closed as Priscilla adjusts to the sensation of being filled. Despite the pain, she can sense a steady trickle of pleasure peeking through. The sensation of sex is unlike she could have ever imagined; a feeling of fullness, a feeling that two bodies have become one. Sær throbs inside of her, clearly eager to continue.

Priscilla's large chest rises and falls, beads of sweat beginning to form on her neck. Tentatively, she shifts her hips, causing her lover's member to shift inside of her, sending a spike of pain and pleasure through her mind. Sær gives a slow, short thrust, then stills, allowing her to rest for a moment before repeating the action. Despite the small amount of force used, Priscilla gasps and pants reflexively.

Sær leans his head back and groans as she clenches around him, the warm, wet cavern massaging his member. Her tail is still wrapped around his torso, flexing with each little movement. "Are... Are you alright? Does it hurt?" Sær asks, panting.

Priscilla nods. "A little, but the pain is fading. Do not worry about me, please..."

Sær shakes his head in disbelief. Even now, she holds his needs above her own.

He angles himself upwards, sinking into her deeper. She yelps cutely, her tail squeezing and pulling him until his member is completely enveloped by her warm folds. His head bucks, and he pants, flexing. Gripping her hips, he thrusts into her savagely, drawing a scream of ecstacy from her throat. She is moaning freely now, her toes clenching as Sær pounds into her.

Withdrawing to the very tip, he slams back and forth, sending pleasure shooting along his back. The near-scalding heat of her entrance makes it impossible to think, so intense is the pleasure. The entire world falls away, and the only sensation either of them can feel is pleasure. Sær repeats slow, deliberate thrusts, and Priscilla lays back with a blissful grin on her face. The next dozen minutes are a cacaphony of moans, whimpers, and sweet nothings punctuated by the sound of skin on skin.

"P-Priscilla," he pants, "I can't..."

Her chest heaves, her naked body glistening with sweat. "Just a little longer..." she says between breaths.

Sær grits his teeth, withdrawing from her wet heat. In a flash, Priscilla locks her legs behind his back, and her tail forces him to thrust in and out of her. "Don't you dare," she growls. "We finish together, or not at all."

"But what if you get-"

Priscilla silences him with a kiss, and he ceases his struggling, giving in to her. By now her tail is locked around him, and it will stay that way until they are finished. The tail of a crossbreed reflexively ensnares a mate, not letting go until the deed is done.

Sær speeds up his thrusting, and Priscilla clenches tightly around him, curling up and locking lips with him. This finally sends her over the edge, and she screams as her orgasm slams into her. Wave after wave of ecstasy flows through her body, and she flexes, enveloping Sær's member in a tight hug of pleasure. "Kuh! P-P-PRISCILLA!"

He shouts her name, finally reaching his peak and flooding her with his seed. Priscilla gives a bone-rattling yowl of pleasure, and the two grip each other tightly. Sær pumps into her jerkily, each movement sending another rope of his release crashing into her, the heat causing her eyes to widen as she gasps.

Sær's eyes unfocus, stuck in a trance as he releases more of his essence than he thought was possible. Slowly, his vision begins to go from light to dark, the last remnants of his monstrous orgasm leaving him at last. Priscilla quivers, still on her way down from her peak. Her husband's seed spreads throughout her, the heat sending jolts of bliss up her spine.

At last, the two go limp, and Sær slumps against his wife. Affectionately nuzzling her abdomen, his mind finally succumbs to exhaustion, this most sacred of acts bringing him a deep, peaceful slumber.


	24. Reception

Sær wakes on top of Priscilla, the cool summer night air cooling his skin. His body feels relaxed, his mind pleasurably clouded. Pale beams of moonlight shine through the iron-laced windows, the angle indicating that the night is still young.

Priscilla shifts, murmuring. Her dry mouth smacks, and she sighs, exhaling. Sær smiles, content to simply stare at his lovely wife.

Wife, Sær thinks. I have a wife. A half-dragon, half-goddess princess more than twice my size, no less.

Thinking on it, it becomes difficult to believe that love isn't destined to be. How could someone so different, so far from human, be so alluring to him, and vice versa? Certainly, before he saw her, only human women held his eye. Not Shades nor Elves, Boreals nor Gods ever managed to attract him. Now, however, he could not fathom being with a human woman in any capacity, or anyone besides Priscilla, really.

"Mmmn..." Priscilla squirms, drunkenly opening her eyes. Her vertical pupils lock on to Sær, slowly focusing as she fumbles for his hand. She finds it, pulling him close and nuzzling her nose into his stomach.

He laughs. "How do you feel?"

"Sær..." She replies.

"That's not a feeling..."

"Sær..."

He sighs, kissing the top of her head. "Did you break into the wine for the reception while I was asleep? What if there isn't enough left for everyone?"

"Di'nt drink. I just feel floaty."

Sær frowns. "That's a bit odd. Perhaps there is something about that in your father's crossbreed physiology book that explains it."

Priscilla bolts up, alert, awake, and mortified, sending Sær tumbling off of the bed. "You saw?" She asks, mortified.

"Yes. I- sorry..."

"So you know that my tail curls when I am..."

"Aroused, yes. Yes, I, um. I know."

Priscilla buries her face in her hands, wailing. Sær pats her awkwardly. Priscilla's head slowly raises, a glint in her eye. "Then it's only fair... That I learn about you!" She lunges toward Sær, holding him down with her hand, her small, sharp, claw-like nails pinning him to the bed. "I'm always the one being embarrassed. Now it's your turn!"

She grabs the covers covering his nude form while he clings to them with a death grip. "You're my husband, are you not?! I should get to see every part of you from up close! Now LET ME SEE YOUR LOINS!"

"HO-HO! And how is the lovely coup-..." Solaire freezes at the doorway, having flung open the doors. Priscilla freezes, in the midst of pulling the covers off of a terrified Sær.

Solaire slowly walks backwards, closing the doors with a creak and a slam.

Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Priscilla faints from embarrassment, crushing her flailing husband under her curvaceous, pliant skin.

After a throrough scrubbing to cleanse the smell of their lovemaking, Priscilla and Sær dress in fine yet comfortable clothes and head down to the reception.

The celebration had already started in earnest; well over a thousand bodies moving, dancing, drinking, all celebrating the wedding as if it's their own.

A deafening chorus of wolf whistles and catcalls erupt from the crowd as the couple walk down the stairs to the ballroom.

"Way to go Sær!"

"How was it, Priscilla?"

"We could hear you from down here!"

"You're so lucky, girl!"

Priscilla turns to Sær, who looks horrified.

"Dear, what are they talking about?"

"They heard us," he whispers. "They heard us... Doing what we did."

Priscilla's eyes glaze over. "No they didn't," she replies brightly. "No. Not true. You're so silly!"

"Priscilla..."

Her tail whips out, grabbing him and bringing him up to face level. "No. You're. So. Silly." She growls, gritting her teeth. "They didn't hear. Silly, silly, silly, silly." She sets him down, her eyes glazed with the fog of denial while Sær trembles.

The pair sit at a banquet table at a raised dais, lined with their friends. Grahame and Sif sit at one end, while Rosabeth, Vengarl and Gwynevere sit at the opposite side. Chester lounges under the table, with Gwynevere pushing his tongue off of her with her foot every so often. The entire hall is abuzz with chatter, mirth, and even the odd fistfight.

The table is laden with enough food to feed an army. Or a dozen Priscillas, at least. Lemon chicken stuffed with croutons and drizzled with olive oil, seasoned roast duck, fruit platters, salads, and a Sær-sized pile of salmon for Priscilla.

Suddenly, the music stops, and the only sound tobe heard is the shuffling of a thousand feet. The crowd parts, forming a large circle and a walkway to it.

Priscilla leans over to Gwyndolin. "Uncle, what is happening?" She whispers.

"The Turning of the Wed," he whispers back. "The couple dances a spiraling waltz. It represents the entwining of two lives becoming one."

"But I don't know how to dance!" Priscilla protests.

Gwyndolin smiles. "Well, you can't turn tail now."

"I suppose you'll just have to wing it," Rosabeth chimes in.

Vengarl grins.

"Just don't dance for too long; we don't want the reception to drag-on."

"I'm sure you'll be fangtastic at it," Sær adds. "And don't try to run; you don't have an escape claws."

Priscilla groans. "I have just married the biggest buffoon in Lordran."

"The luckiest buffoon in Lordran," Sær corrects her, climing up to her.

"The most grateful buffoon in Lordran," Sær amends, kissing her nose.

"The happiest buffoon in Lordran," Sær whispers, and the two kiss passionately.

A collective "oooooooh," emanates from the crowd, accompanied by a smattering of wolf whistles which makes Sif's ears perk up. Priscilla slowly pries her lips off of her husband with a look of abject horror on her elegant features, already beginning to swoon.

"Ah ah ah," Sær says, lightly smacking her cheeks. "You can faint after we dance."

Priscilla stumbles, red-faced, onto the red carpet leading down the steps. The couple stops and stands in the center of the circle of people, nervously waiting for the music to start.

Slowly, a joyful yet serious melody played by violins, a piano, and several flutes emits from the dais. Taking a deep breath, Sær takes Priscilla's tail in place of her hand, beginning a slow waltz. Priscilla follows his lead, her full-body veil fluttering as she moves. The two bob and weave, twirl and slide, creating their own rhythm and entrancing the crowd. Priscilla makes large, swooping twirls, her wings trailing through the air and creating a truly hypnotizing sight.

The song comes to a crescendo, and Priscilla cartwheels backward, continuing to lean back on her tail. Sær mock catches her, the bulk of her weight resting on her tail. The drums clash, and as the instruments stop and their sound still lingers in the air, they both lean in and kiss each other lovingly.

The crowd erupts into a deafening round of applause and cheers, throwing handfuls of white ash into the air. The both of them are crying, the tears tracing lines through the patches of ash.

Sær rests his forehead against her brow, staring into her beautiful jade eyes, the slit pupils peering back at him. Amidst the deafening roar, the two telepathically whisper four words in unison, as if practiced.

"I love you. Always."

A.N. There will be a one year gap in the story. To see what happens during the gap, check out my other fic, Love Rings True. Priscilla, Sær, the Firekeeper, the Ashen One, the Hunter and the Doll all journey to the Ringed City to stop it from consuming their homes. This story will continue, albeit at a slower pace.


	25. Withered Progenitor

Sær jolts awake, a cold finger of dread trailing his spine. The sky is black and empty, the new moon coupled with the thick forest canopy blocking out all light.

Priscilla's ears and tail twitch, and her eyes snap open, sensing the same eerie presence as her husband. She leans forward, sniffing the air, her cute nose twitching. Sensing danger, she protectively wraps Sær in her left wing, tucking him under her breasts. Padding softly on large, petite feet, Priscilla makes her way through the house towards the bonfire. Her scythe rests against the door frame, a dull glow emanating from it, an effect caused by the power of Lifehunt.

Sær wriggles out from her grasp, rolling as he hits the floor. Popping up quickly, he grabs his broadsword, following close behind Priscilla. The courtyard is as pitch black as the Abyss, the glow of her scythe barely illuminating a foot forward.

A commotion erupts from a distance, followed by the screech of a crow. Their heads snap towards the source of the sound, the same direction as the bonfire.

The wind picks up, and the courtyard is filled with the sound of rustling reeds and creaking wood. The cool night air shifts from refreshing to forboding, the thin tendrils of cold air making each sweat drop feel like ice. The couple's hackles stand up, and Priscilla whimpers. The two proceed, passing the bonfire and heading deeper into the shrine ruins, drawn by an imperceptible call.

They carefully navigate the crumbling stone, the wind growing louder and louder behind them. Then, as they pass through an aged threshold, it stops, nary a whistle or whisper to be heard.

"Priscilla, don't be afraid," Sær whispers.

Silence. "Priscilla?"

No response. The glow of her scythe gone, the world around him falls away to darkness. Carrying onward, his eyes dart from side to side, looking for his mate.

Icy breath hits his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. Wait, icy breath?

He whips around, face to face with a set of floating, disembodied teeth, sharp canines poised to strike. Sær gives a startled yell, dashing away.

"Darling, wait!" Priscilla cries, the rest of her body turning visible. "It's just a pr- Ooh..."

With a yell and a curse, Sær tumbles over the edge of the shrine, and a painful smack echoes up to meet Priscilla's ears.

Back at the bonfire, Sær sits hollowed, a hundred thousand souls lighter, irretrievable from the bottom of the cliff. Priscilla gives him a weak smile, giggling nervously.

"Ah-hum, heh... Happy hollow's eve...?"

Sær shoots her a dirty look.


	26. A Present to Remember

A.N. We interrupt your regularly scheduled fluff for separate, non-denominational holiday fluff, followed by sweet holiday smut. Takes place before Sær and Priscilla leave to save Vengarl.

Large flakes of snow fall as the two lovers walk through the city of Anor Londo. The blanket of white quiets the city normally teeming with humans.

Once abandoned, now that Gwyndolin has taken charge ot has transformed into a bustling hub once more. Darkmoon knights and warriors from Darkroot City had banded together, and with the Dark Sun's guidance, they had taken back the city from the hollow menace. Shortly after, Priscilla erected a wall of ice around the city limits, giving the citizens within precious months to erect a more permanent wall.

Taxes and tariffs are no more, for a time.

Citizens willingly clean and repair the city, diligently working to restore it to it's former glory, a beacon of humanity amidst the encroaching dark. Sær and Priscilla both are received as royalty, which technically they are.

Being the daughter of a princess who had forfeited her right to rule, Priscilla was, if in name only, a queen. Sær, always at her side, is, if in name only, a king. Both had forfeited their right to rule, knowing nothing of politics, nor wanting to shoulder the responsibility.

Still, as they walk through the city, they are lavished with presents, praise, and pats.

(A superstition had quickly spread that rubbing the tail of the queen would bring one luck.)

Priscilla yawns, which for a crossbreed is closer to a yowl. "This is the first time I have seen snow since we left Ariamis."

Sær looks at her worriedly. "Does it bring back bad memories?"

"Oddly, no. The snow here has another feel to it, a shine. It's soothing and peaceful, and the texture is powdery and soft." She smiles faintly, her bare feet crunching the snow as the two approach the spiral staircase to the castle. "More importantly, I have a wonderful person to share it with," she giggles.

"Really? Who?"

Priscilla rolls her eyes, picking up her foolish little husband by the scruff of his neck, setting him upon her back. "The most handsome-"

"-And smartest," Sær interjects.

"Yes, and smartest. And the most insecure, it would seem," Priscilla says flatly.

"Then it's a good thing I have the world's fluffiest, sweetest, most lascivious security blanket."

Priscilla groans. "Were your words any sweeter, your teeth would rot."

"What can I say?" Sær grins. "You turn me into an utter sap."

Priscilla rubs her temples, eager to reach the castle and be free of these dreadful puns.

"Priscilla! 'Tis been so long!"

Gwynevere, the Princess of Sunlight, Picks her daughter up like a plaything, hugging her fiercely.

"It has been but a single moon, mother," Priscilla replies. "I am a married woman now; my dear old mother is no longer of top concern."

"Ah! You wound me with these words, Priscilla!" Gwynevere mock-gasps, setting her down. She rounds on Sær, clearly expecting an embrace.

"P-P-P-Priscilla..." He looks toward her pleadingly, clearly terrified of his mother-in-law.

Priscilla scoops him up, clutching him to her bosom protectively. "Sær is feeling quite worn from the trip here. Are there any baths drawn that we may use?"

Gwynevere's eyes dart between the two suspiciously. "...Fine. Up the stairs, down the hall, up the lift, left at the golden bust, right at the priceless vase, up the stairs, down the ramp and the guest's bath will be at the end of the hall."

"I love castles," Sær breathes.

"Aaaaaah~..."

Steam rises in translucent sheets as the couple sink into the bath. Sær's feet tingle, pins and needles shooting through them as he thaws. The bits of frost that had accumulated on Priscilla's tail melt instantly, and her tail-fur floats with ethereal beauty. Sinking in to her shoulders, the bath water spills over the top, drenching the marble floors.

The bath is truly only a bath in name, such is it's size. Natural hot springs are abundant in the mountain where the castle rests, and the water is pumped beneath the floors, heating the tiles. By the time the scalding water reaches the bath, it is just the right temperature.

Fresh water cascades over a marble island in the center, and the cool water slides through vents at the bottom. Cold wind blows through the high open ceiling, pleasantly nipping at the skin of the two lovers. Abnormally large flakes of snow float gently down to the surface of the water, lasting but a moment before melting.

Sær turns, leaning back against his wife's shoulder. Her fur is still sparse, and he can see pink patches of skin poking through. Grinning, he pokes one, satisfied when he hears her emit a sqeal.

"Darling, stop! You know I'm sensitive under my fur!" Priscilla whines.

"I'm aware," Sær cackles. "And it's a fact I take advantage of every~ single~ night~,"

he purrs, raising an eyebrow.

The crossbreed would blush if her face wasn't already flushed from the heat. "You're insatiable. It has only been a mere-"

"Two hours and twenty-seven minutes. Two hours, twenty-six minutes and and forty seconds longer than I'd like," he interjects, lightly running his fingertips along her midsection.

"You had best get used to waiting," she huffs. "Mother says that the holiday dinner will be ready within the hour."

"That's plenty of time."

"What will I do with you..." Priscilla complains.

Sær smirks. "I can think of a few things."

Sær makes his way up the stairs toward his and Priscilla's quarters, his belly full to bursting. Roast mutton, honey-drizzled baked apple, winter stout, and a large helping of greens force-fed to him by his wife. And as everyone knows, there is only one thing to do after a good meal.

Straining to open the massive door to the royal chambers, he is greeted by none other than his lovely mate.

Naked. Covered in ribbons.

Sær's jaw drops, transfixed by the giant beauty sprawled across the bed. "I... You... Is this... how... Prisc-... Um..."

"Well?" She says, giggling at his stammering. "Are you going to 'open' your present?"

Sær nods frantically, hurriedly removing his clothes and tripping over himself to reach her.

"Hurry, Hurry~," the crossbreed teases, rolling over on her stomach and kicking her legs. Her tail sways like a pendulum. As if her lover isn't hypnotized already.

Finally freeing himself from his breeches, Sær climbs up on the bed, kneeling over his lover. Her tail dips forward, carressing his chin as he lines up with her womanhood, breathing heavily.

Priscilla looks back at him and wiggles her rump teasingly, and the last of his restraint snaps. In one swift movement, he plunges into her, the wetness of her sex accomadating him easily. Sær's eyes close tightly as she wraps her folds around him, massaging his member and eliceliciting continuous groans from him.

She gently wraps her tail around his midsection, holding him steady as she rocks back and forth, continuing to clench around his length. Moans spill from her mate's mouth freely, his head lolling back loosely.

"P-Please don't stop," He pleads weakly.

Priscilla rewards his begging by clenching as hard as she can, drawing him in all the way to the hilt. Sær's eyes open wide, and he gasps loudly as he feels the deepest part of her kissing the tip of his length.

He grips her hips with shaky hands, desperately pumping into her as she matches his thrusts.

He can feel tension rising in his chest, that blissful peak looming overhead.

Priscilla is quickly reaching her peak as well, perfectly in stride with her husband's timing as usual. She shifts her hips upward slightly, and she can suddenly feel his sac tapping against the most sensitive part of her.

A storm of pleasure erupts in her head, all conscious thought gone. He hilts himself once more, and the combination of his manhood kissing the most sacred part of her womanhood and his sac once more hitting her sensitive nub, release finally washes over her. Her toes shake and curl, and every muscle in her body clenches as her vision turns white. Sær plunges into her one last time, her own orgasm spurring him on. She clenches down around him, and with a loud groan, he spills himself within her. Her womb is inundated with his seed, the hot ropes causing surges of ecstasy. She involuntarily clenches down his length, milking every last drop of his essence as he clutches her tightly, head bucking.

Finally spent, the two ride their climaxes into a deep sleep, dreaming only of each other.


	27. Icy Fever

"Kchoo!"

Priscilla sniffles, sneezing into a light blue hankerchef. Her nose is red and rubbed raw, the color spreading to her cheeks, her hankerchef completely frozen.

Fun fact about dragons: Their sinuses are for elemental breaths and relieving altitude pressure. Their stomachs are tough as nails, so mucus isn't needed to protect them.

Being half frost dragon, Priscilla's cute little sneezes send a gust of frost flying from her face instead, freezing the hankerchef solid.

The creaking of the hollowed tree she is in tells of a great storm outside. It must be a veritable hurricane, for such a strong gust to peirce through miles of dense forest. The sound makes Priscilla uneasy.

She had weathered storms before, but they were all spent with Sær, and none were this bad.

The knob of the front door turns, and the wind pushes it open violently. Sær half-runs, half-tumbles into the room, followed by doctor Logan, who struggles to stuff his massive hat through the doorway.

Once both men are in they both shove the door back into place, pulling down the wood bar that serves as a lock.

"That should keep it from breaking open," Sær pants. "How much longer is this storm supposed to last?"

"I'm a doctor, not a meteorologist," Logan huffs. "Now, where is that wife of you-AAAH!" He screams as he catches sight of Priscilla. "GWYN'S BOLLOCKS! THE LIFE HUNTER!"

"That's my wife," Sær says angrily. "And how do you know about her power?"

The doctor clutches his chest, his heart pounding. "I-I studied her... And served as her doctor for her early childhood. It wasn't until the incedent that I found out about her power."

Priscilla gives a small wave. "'Ello, mifter dogtor Logeh," she says stuffily. "Theg 'oo fo' comig."

The doctor bows. "Of course, of course."

He strides forward, looking her over. He puts a hand on her large back. "Breathe deep for me, please."

Priscilla obliges, drawing in a large breath. The doctor moves his hand. "Again."

Heeeeh-fooooo.

"Hmm... Let me try the front. lift your head, please."

Haaah-foooo.

"Again."

Haaah-fooo.

"Again."

Haaaahehhh... KCHEUW!

She bucks forward, letting out a collosal sneeze. Logan, fully prepared, merely ducks his head forward, his large hat sheilding him from the icy gust. The undead behind him is not so lucky. Poor Sær is hit with the full force of the frosty gale, pushing him back against the wall. By the time it subsides, he is frosted like a cake, his hair frozen stiff and ice crystals coating his skin.

"D-D-D-Damn I-I-It," He chatters. "P-P-P-P-Pris-s-silla, c-can you please c-c-coverrr

yourrrrr m-m-mouth?"

"Sah-ee, dalig," Priscilla says, sniffling. "I'b neber been sick befo'. I di'nt know I gud do dat."

Logan sighs. "Well that certainly tells us a lot."

"Wat do 'oo meang?"

"Your father had a similar illness," the doctor replies. "His frost crystals wouldn't always clear his body, and some would get caught in his stomach. Normally, it would be swept up after a few frost breaths, but he had eaten an undead maiden the day before. Undead flesh-and hollow flesh, especially- is weak to fire, and inversely, repels frost. The crystals were shoved into his bloodstream, and shortly after he fell ill."

The doctor laughs. "I mean honestly! What kind of gluttonous dragon eats hollowed flesh?"

* * * The Previous Day * * *

"Dar-liiiing, how much longer? I haven't eaten all day!"

Priscilla's stomach growled as she sat with her lover by the stream. "It can't be helped," Sær replied. "All the salmon have taken shelter under rocks and roots because of the upcoming storm."

Priscilla pouted. "Maybe you're just a bad fisherman."

"I've been fishing my whole life!" Sær said indignantly. "If it has scales, then I've caught it. Including you."

"Hmph," Priscilla huffed. "You-"

"Ah! Ah! I got one!" The fishing line yanked, and Sær started coiling the line frantically.

Priscilla peered over the bank, drooling. "Ooh! Catch it! Catch it!"

Sær gave a mighty heave, and the fish flew out of the water, smacking him in the face. "OWHF! Not again!"

Priscilla eagerly snatched the salmon, too eager to cook it.

"WAIT!" Sær stopped her just before she swallowed it whole. "Priscilla, doesn't that salmon look.. Off? I don't think it's healthy."

Priscilla looked at the fish. It was green and mottled, it's eyes pale and milky. "Groagh," it moaned.

"I didn't know fish could make noises," Priscilla said.

"They can't..." Sær says uneasily. "Priscilla, maybe it's best we let it go- Hey, where is it?" He looked up to see Priscilla with her cheeks stuffed.

She shrugged. "M-uh-nmph..."

Sær sighed.

* * * Present * * *

"You ate a hollowed fish," the doctor says incredulously.

"I wuff vewy hugwy," she says matter-of-factly. "How wuff I to know if a fifh if howwow?"

ACHOOOOEEEUW!

"Ugh," Priscilla moans. "I don' lieg beig zick. Id hawd to breafhe."

"You still have a ways to go yet," the doctor says, shaking his head.

"What do we do?" Sær asks worriedly. "How do we treat it?"

"Bed rest and estus," the doctor says simply. "It should clear in about a week. Unfortunately, knowing you two, it will be quite the trial."

"What do you mean?"

The doctor clears his throat. "Due to the nature of frost and the undead, close contact with one would make the crystals spread throughout the body even more. Taking that into account, my advice is..."

He lifts his head and stares at the two.

"No cuddling."


	28. Snugly Wrapped

Sær and Priscilla stare at the doctor uncomprehendingly.

"I don't understand," Sær says. "What... What does that mean? What language is that?"

The doctor stares at him blankly.

"O-oh, I understand," Sær says shakily. "You were making a joke. Whooo, you almost had me th-"

"This is not a joke," the doctor replies sternly. "Your wife has a serious illness, and physical contact will only make it worse."

"Wha-Wha... What kind of doctor are you?! That doesn't make any sense!" Sær yells. "I want a second opin-"

His complaints are cut short as Priscilla's tail wraps around his leg, hoisting him and dangling him upside-down in front of her face. "Fær," she says sternly. "Dogdor logeh if twyig to hewp uff. Don ged mad at him jufft becauff you don lieg hiff diagnofiff."

Sær stares at her blankly. "Um... What?"

Priscilla starts to respond, only to scrunch up her nose. All that talking had agitated it, and she tries desperately to hold back a sneeze. She fails.

"NO NO NO NO NO-"

"AAACHIEW!" Her sneeze hits Sær full on, the icy gust freezing him nearly solid.

Priscilla flinches. "Oobs... Sowwy."

She sets him down gently, where he shivers voilently, his long hair frozen in vertical spikes. He quickly hobbles over to the fire to thaw, creaking and cricking as the ice breaks.

The doctor reaches into his bag, pulling out a large glass jar filled with pills. He hands it to Priscilla. "These are filled with tiny, polished titanite pellets. These will break down the crystals and speed up your recovery. I suggest you take one now."

Priscilla timidly takes the jar, pulling the cork with her nail-claws. She takes a pill gingerly and pops it into her mouth. Immediately, she blanches and whines.

"Don't be such a baby," Logan scolds her, his massive hat wobbling. "You deal with the bad taste for a week, or a cold for three."

With some effort, Priscilla manages to swallow the pill. "Bleeeehh. Id tathdes ickyyyyy!"

"It's for you own good!" Logan insists. "Tell her, Sær!"

Sær sits by the fire, shivering with his knees drawn up to his chest. "No cuddles," he whispers. "No snuggles, no hugs, no embraces, no kissing, no nuzzling, no squeezing, no smooches, no rubs, no pats, no pets, no nothing. I'm dead. This is it. This is how I die. I can't take this, I can't take this, I can't take this!"

Logan sighs. How have these two even survived this long?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The door to the couples' large tree house opens, and it takes the both of them to push it shut and bar it from the torrential winds. Priscilla shrugs off her wet robes, and Sær diligently towels her off, wrapping her tightly in a warm wool blanket once his task is finished.

"Dalig, wud if dif?" She sniffles. "My bodeh if shiverig."

"You're probably just cold," Sær replies. "I suppose, being part frost dragon, you've never felt the cold before."

Priscilla shakes her head. "No. I don lieg id."

Sær goes to the closet, grabbing a down comforter and adding it to the wool one, tossing it over Priscilla. He runs around her, pulling it tight and easing her into bed, tucking her in tightly. "There! Now you look like a Brrrr-ito," he says, grinning.

Priscilla merely nods, closing her eyes, not even possessing the energy to groan at his horrid japes.

That is what worries Sær the most. "I'll... I'll make you some soup!" He says brightly, hoping to cheer her up with his enthusiasm.

"Theg 'oo," she says quietly. She gives a little cough and closes her emerald eyes. Sær grabs a silk pillow, fluffing it and gently places it under Priscilla's head. He ties her hair up into a sideways ponytail (or dragontail) so it doesn't get too hot or sweaty. Wetting a cloth, he places it on his wife's forehead, tucking it under her horns.

"Fueh?" Priscilla mumbles questioningly. "Dalihg, dif if cowd."

"I know," Sær replies. "But your head is very warm. Colds make you feel... Well, cold. You should warm up soon, though. The cooking fire should make this room toasty warm soon enough."

"Ah-key."

Sær strokes her hair, kissing her cheek briefly. "Do you need anything else before I start making the soup?"

"Yesh," Priscilla says weakly. "Mah taiw if fweezig."

Sær nods, grabbing yet another blanket. Her tail shivers and twitches, writhing to and fro. It takes a fair amount of effort, but Sær eventually manages to wrestle it into a snug blanket wrap, where it wags feebly.

Once the crossbreed is firmly wrapped up like a mummy, Sær sets to work making the soup. Estus, thyme, salt, coldflower, and a myriad of herbs are tossed into the bowl once he measures them carefully.

He lets it simmer, stirring and adding a pinch of salt here or there. He flavors it with fish oil as a substitute for fish, seeing as Doctor Logan had banned her from eating any more salmon.

Once finished, he pours the soup into the washing basin that Priscilla uses as a bowl, putting it on a platter. The platter is littered with other goodies; crackers, meticulously peeled grapes, apples, dried chicken chunks, and pine tea, Priscilla's favorite. With a grunt, he lifts the platter, carrying the heavy load to his bed-ridden dragon-lady.

"Soup's ready," Sær chirps. Priscilla hefts herself up slightly, sitting at an angle. Being wrapped up snugly seems to have improved her mood, as she smiles weakly when her husband lays the tray of food on her lap.

She sniffles. "Thenk yuh," she weezes, her sinuses a little clearer. She looks down at the brilliantly presented food, her jaw dropping slightly. It's as if her husband had read her mind! All the food on the tray is just what she had been craving.

A spot of red on Sær's fingers catches her attention. As she examines his hands more closely, she begins to notice a myriad of cuts. She shakes her head.

'What a chivalrous fool,' she thinks. For as skilled as he is with the sword, he certainly can't use a knife.

Priscilla leans forward, outsretching her arm and poking the man hard on his forehead. Sær looks at her eyebrows raised.

Priscilla has a saccharine smile on her face. "You looooove meeee~," she singsongs teasingly.

Sær blushes. "Shut up..." He grumbles embarrassed. "I have to feed you, don't I? N-now, just eat and go to sleep!"

Priscilla obliges, still beaming.Sær has been struggling with the no touching ban, and being cold to her is the only way he can keep himself from touching her.

Priscilla hums thoughtfully. Such delicious food... Sær is being so kind to me; my mouth especially! Perhaps once I am better, my mouth could return the favor~

She blushes at the lewd thoughts, pushing them from her mind. It's hard enough for her to resist touching Sær.

Besides, doesn't waiting for a treat make it taste better?


	29. Suds

Sær tosses and turns, lying awake in a cold sweat. He breathes deeply, willing himself to rest, but sleep still eludes him.

In the year he has been with Priscilla, he has only spent four days without her by his side. Through thick and thin, monsters and mayhem, vampire trees and massive mothers, they hardly even left each other's sight.

While the three lucid days of separation in Darkroot Forest were difficult, Sær had been unable to touch her. Now, with her a mere floor below, restraining himself from burrowing into her fur is unbearable.

Some of the local housewives had even gone so far as to make him a large, fluffy pillow with her visage on it, but it simply isn't the same. Priscillow is gorgeous, to be sure, but she still doesn't share the warmth and comfort of the original.

Priscilla's deep, steady breathing from below echoes up the stairs, the sweet sound caressing Sær's ears and raising gooseflesh on his neck.

Sleeping on Priscilla is no mere casual action. It is an experience. Her soft fur would partially encircle her willing victim, and her rhythmic heartbeat is a blissful lullaby. Her large, soft breasts create a perfect valley to lay one's head in, and their rise and fall soothes effortlessly. Her arms would squeeze her prey, enough to slightly restrict breathing without being uncomfortable. Her wings would drape down around her partner and her body heat would radiate straight through her fur. Last but not least, her tail would snake up between her lover's arms, the perfect appendage for hugging to sleep. Completely encircled by soft warmth, gentle rocking, and light squeezing, Sær would be guaranteed to be asleep within the minute.

Sær groans, mentally kicking himself for thinking of the tantalizing fantasy. Turning over once more, he wraps his arms around Priscillow, praying that his lover makes a speedy recovery...

* * * * * * * *

Sær awakens to the sound of crackling frost. Bolting upright, he shivers as the cold air greets him, assaulting his flesh with it's icy tendrils.

Shoulders hunched, Sær clambers out of bed, his bare feet padding on a thin layer of ice. Taking care to place most of his weight on the banister, he slowly makes his way downstairs. The ground level is even worse, the walls coated with ice and snow swirling about the room.

The ice grows thicker towards the center of the room, where Prisilla lies shivering.

Under normal circumstances, Sær would chalk it up to a nightmare, but this illness seems to have damaged her resistance to the cold.

Piling logs onto the dwindling fire, he lights them with a quick burst of pyromancy. Sær was never very adept at magic, but seeing as pyromancy is more about subduing fire with skill rather than intelligence, he can manage the basic skills fine. Besides, Sær thinks. The most skilled mages couldn't even best a toddler with an Estoc.

A moaning from behind him draws his attention. Priscilla stirs, shifting slightly to prop herself up on her pillow. Her face, normally a pink-tinted porcelain, is greyish-blue, the hue making her eyes seem sullen. Her teeth chatter as she wraps the blankets around herself, snow tumbling off of them.

"D-d-dalihg?" She stutters. "Why if it fo cowd?"

"I think you were breathing frost in your sleep, dear," Sær replies. "I'll keep a closer eye on the fire from now on."

"What time if it?"

"Early, early morning at my guess," Sær says. The torrential rain had left the forest floor practically flooded, and the heat of the sun's first rays turn it into a thick fog. The light scatters through the mist, illuminating cracks and crevices and caves that haven't seen light for hundereds of years. It's tail thumping in discontent.

Sær smiles, glad that she has finally decided to rely on him. Her adorable impatience isn't unwelcome, either.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Sær finishes lighting the last of the fires underneath the giant washbasin. While Priscilla's fur normally has oils that repel dirt, the ice from her breath has caked into it after days of rest, leaving it heavy and cold.

Once the water has been sufficiently heated, Priscilla waddles over, her posture stiff and her gait wobbly from the weight of the ice. Without a moments hesitation, she hops into the basin and sinks down to her shoulders. She is quickly shrouded by steam, and the hiss of melting ice is accompanied by her relieved sigh.

"Better?" Sær asks.

"Better," Priscilla replies. Some color has returned to her face, and her hair and fur floating in the water gives her an ethereal, heavenly sort of look. Using a scrub brush and lavender soap, Sær sets to work, scrubbing her dutifully and taking care not to actually touch her.

Once Priscilla is clean and dry, she is wrapped up in a thick, warm wool comforter. Her hair blends in with the white wool, and the blanket rests just a foot from the ground, making her look like a giant, gorgeous ghost.

Sær leads her back to the hollow-tree house, tucking her in once more. He turns to his wife.

"Only one thing left, and then you can get some rest," He says, holding up her medicine.

Priscilla's eyes widen, and she frantically tries to leap out of bed. She fails. Sær had how learned to tie hundreds of different knots in his childhood as a fisherman, and with a good braided rope, he could tie down Gwyn himself.

"It's for you own good," Sær chides sternly.

Priscilla shakes her head vigorously, thumping her tail in protest and pursing her lips.

"It will help you get better!"

Shake shake shake.

"Please?"

Thump thump thump.

"Fine. Will you at least give me a goodnight kiss?"

Nod nod nod.

Sær leans in to peck her lips, and the moment she opens them and leans in, he pushes the pill hidden in his cheek into her mouth. Her eyes go wide, and Sær puts all his weight into holding her jaw shut so that she doesn't spit it out. She thrashes and bucks, blanching from the taste, but her lover hangs on. Finally forced to admit defeat, she swallows the pill angrily.

Sær smiles warmly. "See? Not so bad, right?"

She coughs a burst of ice dust in his face, turning it red and snow-flecked.

"AGHK! Pteh, pthoo!" Sær coughs and splutters, quickly wiping his face of the frost. He rounds to face Priscilla with an angry glare. "You did that intentionally, didn't you?!" He accuses.

The crossbreed holds her fist to her mouth, giving exaggerated wheezy, high pitched little coughs. She motions to the kitchen, rubbing her tummy, then makes a heart with her hands while batting her eyelashes.

Make me some food, pwetty pwease?

Sær thinks for a moment, then stomps off to the kitchen, muttering. "You're lucky I'm so damn nice, you wheezy little furball."

Priscilla spits an ice-ball at him, giggling as it hits him square on the butt.


	30. A Whiskey Propisition

“You want her to swallow what?”

Sær and the doctor sit in the den while Priscilla coughs and sniffles in the other room. The den is something of a pet project for Priscilla; it is covered with coats of paint, fallen knick-knacks and folded paper with scribbles on them. Strong as she may be, Priscilla still has trouble with fine motor control due to her size, and she uses the den to practice drawing, painting, and organizing.

Because of this, Sær tends to end up with most indoor chores such as cleaning, dishes, and laundry. Priscilla is no layabout, however, and pulls her own weight by cleaning the exterior, fetching and chopping firewood, and carrying whatever Saer hunts to the market.

“Alcohol,” the doctor replies impatiently, irked by Sær’s question.

“You do know she’s sick, yes?”

“It will help with her cough, as well as her headache. Besides, I’m not asking you to get her drunk!”

“How much should I give her?”

The doctor strokes his chin thoughtfully. “She is roughly thirteen and a half feet tall, and factoring in her overall body mass index, a bottle should do the trick. About four liters, to be exact.”

Sær stares at him blankly. The doctor rolls his eyes at his cluelessness. “A gallon, you imperial fool.”

“Did you just call me a stupid king?”

“No, I-M-P-E-“

“Don’t do that here, go to the bathroom!”

Doctor Logan looks for traces of mirth in Sær’s face. He finds none. “Just get her to drink,” he says crossly, striding to the door. “If she can eat a hollowed salmon raw, then she should have no problem eating or drinking anything.” He slams the door shut, and the vines on the treehouse wall rustle.

“You’re not the one who’s had to force feed her pills all week,” Sær mutters. He grabs a satchel, ready to travel to the market in Anor Londo for the whiskey, only to come face-to-face with Doctor Logan once more.

“I forgot to mention,” he says apologetically. “The alcohol will melt the ice crystals in the bloodstream, but only close to the skin. It won’t cure her right away, but it will allow you two to cudd-“

Before he can even finish, Sær bolts to the door. Doctor Logan is prepared however, and grabs Sær by the collar.

“Hurrrkgh!”

Logan rolls his eyes as Sær makes a choking sound. “I’m not done talking,” he says, as if talking to a child. “Only the surface of the skin. If you come into contact with mucus membranes, then it will drive the ice crystals into her body and make her even more sick.”

“So…”

“So, no kissing, and no intercourse. Whatsoever.”

Sær’s face falls. While the cuddling ban had been the worst part of this sickness, the abstinence had been no picnic either. It’s rare for the couple to go more than two days without coupling, and sometimes, if all the chores were done, they would spend all day ‘in bed.’

“Now go,” Logan says, interrupting the macrophile’s reverie. “The sooner she has that alcohol, the sooner this sickness will be over and done with. Make sure to add ginger and honey; it will go down easier and soothe her stomach.”

Sær nods appreciatively, back-springing to his feet and sprinting to the nearest bonfire.

Anor Londo had been growing slowly more active after Gwyndolin returned. Under his rule, his Darkmoon knights had begin the arduous task of taking back the city. Bloody battles had been fought against hollows and drakes, and the cleared sections would be walled off and occupied by travelers, old citizens, and families from Darkroot Forest. After months of fighting, a third of the entire city has been taken back, and the first square to be taken over bustles with activity.

It's here that Sær appears, materializing at a bonfire hidden in a maze of alleys. His skin prickles as his body solidifies, and he squirms at the passing nausea. The side effects of bonfire travel tend to me more severe the farther you go, and if one dies far away from one, they can expect to be sick as a dog for an hour at the least. After the side effects pass, Sær bolts down the alleyway, kicking off the walls to clear piles of abandoned furniture. He hops on the trashcans that line the alley, not wanting to come in contact with any rats on the cobblestone. Giant rats are easy to deal with -indeed, they are most adventurer’s first kill- but something about the way normal sized rats move unnerve Sær.

Sær hates rats. Giant spiders? Fine. Giant shield-eating slugs? No problem. Skeletons that stay together despite having no ligaments? Piece of cake. But rats? No way in hell.

Sær slides under a clothesline, then rolls up and across a desk, kicking off of it and running along the wall and grabbing a lantern on the wall. He swings his legs up and over the bar, rotating around it and then hopping onto it before leaping to a trellis two meters away. He runs along it, only for one of the wires suspending it to snap. He twists in the air, grabbing the broken cable. Just as he starts to fall, he kicks off the trellis, making the second wire snap and sending it plummeting to the ground some thirty feet below. Sær is launched through the air towards a descending clothesline, and he swings his broken cable up and over it, grabbing the other end and sliding down at a dizzying speed. The ground rushes towards him at a fatal pace.

Digging in his belt, Sær whips out his Cossbreed Talisman. Suitable for casting both miracles and sorceries, the talisman consisted of small sacred chime, the flapper of which is formed from one of Priscilla's scales, and tail fur surrounding the bell, fastened to the fine leather handle.

With a flick of the wrist, he casts Sneak, dropping to the ground and tumbling along the cobblestones painfully. Unbeknowst to Saer, sneak only prevents fall damage, not pain. His speed sends him far, and his reduced weight from the spell makes him bounce like a handsome (in his opinion) ball.

“OW-OW-OW-OOF-AGHCK-AH!”

The unkempt missile flies out from the alleyway, hurtling into the square and narrowly missing passers by. He bowls into a cabbage cart, launching the produce every which way, sending people running for cover. With one final tumble he crashes into a booth, knocking the shelving loose and sending bottles crashing to the ground. One lands on Sær's chest, and he picks it up.

“Ornstien's Whiskeys,” he says, reading the label. “Perfect! Just what I was looking for.”

A shadow falls across him, and he looks up to see a woman standing over him. Middle aged and broad of face and body, she wears a stretched shopkeeper apron that looks older than she is. Bits of cabbage litter her hair, and anger exudes off of her in waves. She unfolds her muscled arms, slowly cracking her knuckles. Sær pales, gulping before beginning to speak.

“Lettuce just forget this happened. Hitting people is against the slaw. Besides, for a woman your age, getting in a fight is whiskey.”


	31. Quiet, Dear

Sær materializes at the bonfire in a puff of smoke. After bowling over a whiskey stand, he had no choice but to snatch a bottle and bolt back to Priscilla. He had left all of his souls as payment, but if the welts on his back from thrown empty bottles are any indication, it wasn't enough.

Panting slightly, Sær heads through the forest in the direction of the great tree.

After all the villagers had been freed from the gnarled, parasitic roots, the forest began to die, the trees to close to get enough individual sunlight and water. The leaves had wilted, the bark had dried, and even the ferns on the forest floor began to wilt. If things had continued that way, the people of Darkroot City would have been forced to leave in the abscence of fresh food.

One day, though, a peculiar thing happened. Old man Petrus-once a merchant with an eye for relics- had succumbed to exhaustion on a stroll through the woods. Father time had worn away at his old soul, and his time had finally come.

Or it would have, if not for the roots.

He was quickly found, half-buried, underneath the only green tree in the entire forest. No sooner had he been dug out, he good-naturedly exclaimed; "Put me back! Those trees are better company than the likes 'o you!"

It had occurred to the villagers that not one of them had aged in the dozens of years they were kept underground. They wanted for nothing; the trees kept them alive, and they fed the trees.

Within weeks, news had spread, and all the village's old and infirm gathered in the square. The town held a massive celebration, full of tearful goodbyes from friends and family. Finally, when all were good and ready, they climbed into a massive hole and were quickly ensnared by the roots, then dragged off to whatever area of the forest needed them most.

Sær shudders. It's strange to think that under all the forest's vibrant verdancy lies dozens of living people, but at least they are alive and happy.

Finally reaching his home, Sær approaches the massive front door. On it's face, about ten feet up, is a curly, neatly painted name in peach, white, gold, and pale blue:

Priscilla

Below, a smaller door is cut into the larger one, with a name sloppily carved into the wood.

s Æ r

It looks as if the 'artist' had tried to carve it with a manly flourish. They had failed miserably.

Unlatching the smaller door, Sær pushes into his home, greeted by the smell of old soup and the sound of a wheezy crossbreed. Kicking off his shoes and shaking himself dry, he ruffles around in his pack for the whiskey, snapping the cap open loudly once he finds it.

Priscilla's ears twitch, and she grabs the covers with both hands and peeks up over them. "Dahlig? If dat you?"

Sær pops out from around the corner smiling and holds out the bottle proudly.

"Wha if dat?" Priscilla asks, suspiciously sniffing the bottle.

"Alcohol," Sær replies. "Doctor Logan said it will help you get better."

Priscilla cautiously takes the whiskey, sniffing vigorously at the mouth of the bottle. Convinced it isn't more icky medicine, she tilts the bottle slightly and takes tentative laps at the amber liquid.

Her face blanches slightly as she tastes it, but she swallows it all the same.

"Taftes funny."

She takes another sip, smacking her lips contemplatively. "S'okay," she mutters. she takes a hefty swig, a content look across her face. "Id taftes a bid bedder, now..."

Soon, the color has returned to her cheeks and her congestion has cleared up. Sær snuggles up to her happily, occasionally rattled by her hiccups. By the time the bottle is almost empty, Priscilla's face is flushed scarlet, her eyes hazy and unfocused. She eyes the bottle sadly, then shakes the last few drops out onto her tongue.

With nothing more to catch her attention, she turns to Sær. All at once, a saccharine, euphoric smile appears on her face, and she squeals happily as she squeezes the poor undead so hard that the breath is driven from him.

"Shærrrr," she slurs. "We haven't touched in sho LONG! HIC!" She nuzzles his face, and her horns scratch Sær's forehead painfully. The crossbreed giggles uncontrollably, her peals of laughter inturrupted by loud hiccups.

"Shær, Shaaa-airrr! I wuv yooouuu~!" She curls up around him, her tail thumping happily.

Sær is in panic mode, the air squeezed out of him as the giant fluff-ball clumsily sates her all-encompassing lust for cuddles. Reaching into his pack, Sær quickly pulls out his pyromancy glove as spots begin to dance across his vision. With a snap, he casts iron flesh and he finally breathes as Priscilla is unable to squeeze any harder.

Priscilla yelps, dropping the heavy hunk of husband as she jumps back. Her eyes narrow as she realizes exactly what had happened.

"Oh, I shee," she says angrily. "Finally shick of the shtinky owd cwoshbweed?"

"What? No, I-"

"I should've HIC! Known. Who would want a fweak wike me, after all?"

She buries under the covers, and the sheets start to shake as she emits small, hiccuping sobs.

Sær sighs. For all her power, Priscilla still has terrible insecurities stemming from her abandonment as a young crossbreed.

He climbs up to her, pulling the edge of the covers up and crawling in. Priscilla's large face stares at him sullenly. Crawling forward, Sær nuzzles her cheek, then laps up her tears.

"You're overreacting, you big dummy," He says softly. "I literally went to hell and back just so I could marry you. Do you think I would do that if I didn't love you?"

Priscilla looks away, pouting, and lets out a small hiccup. Irked, Sær darts forward and nips her ear, smirking as she yelps.

"I'm not cooking for you until you give me a kiss," he warns sternly. Priscilla purses her lips huffily.

"Fine then. I guess this fancy, freshly caught tuna is allllll mine." Sær pulls the covers back and begins to leave.

In a flash, Priscilla snatches him back, plants a smooch on his cheek, pulls the covers back, and hurls him bodily into the kitchen. One of the perks of having an undead husband; you can be as rough with him as you want.

Days pass, and Priscilla's condition improves steadily. The abscence of the cuddle ban does wonders for her mood, and in no time the only sign of sickness is the occasional sneeze.

With a grunt, doctor Logan pulls a giant glass tube from Priscilla's mouth, studying the crimson liquid within.

"Good, good," he mutters. "Steady improvement! A day or two of bed rest should do the trick, I think."

Priscilla smiles serenely. The crackling fire, toasty-warm blankets, and fish soup spoon-fed to her by Sær seem to have lulled her into a stupor, and she nuzzles into her pillow as her eyes droop. The doctor gives the couple a curt nod before ambling out the door.

Sær nuzzles his wife's nose. "Did you hear that? Just a few more days till we can go out on adventures again!"

"Dun' wanna go on adventures," she grumbles sleepily. "Wanna be spoiled more."

"But I've been spoiling you all week!"

"More," Priscilla whines. It has been her first time being tended to, and she isn't willing to give it up just yet.

"Fine," Sær huffs. "But you know the price."

The sleepy dragon leans over and plants a loud, wet kiss on his cheek before turning right back over and falling asleep.


	32. Who Wants Da Smooches?

Priscilla drearily opens one eye, the jade iris glowing from the dying daylight. She shifts slightly, the wood of the window sill pleasantly warm from the sun. The sleepy crossbreed stretches her tail, curling it and uncurling it as she idly sratches her ear.

Sunday afternoon cat naps are Priscilla's absolute favorite, and since Sær normally goes fishing around noon, it's the perfect time to curl up into a ball and snooze without worrying about suffocating her man. Sleeping in a ball is the most natural way to rest for a dragon; it protects their underbelly, the only area not covered with scales. Priscilla curls right back up, hugging her tail and draping one of her wings over her head, making her look like a perfect fluffy sphere.

She is just drifting off once more when the sound of the door opening pulls her from her stupor. Her nose is hit with a strong waft of Sær-smell; the scent of cedar wood, fresh linens, and the nostalgic odor of a fresh sea breeze.

Priscilla's tail springs to attention, straightening out like a plank. She jolts awake, poised to leap from the cushioned window sill, but Sær stops her before she can.

"Shhh," he whispers, running up the wall to clamber on to the sill. "Go back to sleep."

Priscilla nods and lays back down.

"You know," Sær says. "If you keep sleeping on the window sill, you'll have to change your name."

"To what...?" Priscilla asks, dreading the answer.

"Pris-sill-a," he replies, suppressing a smile through pursed lips while laughing through his nose.

"How long did it take you to craft that horrid jape?" Priscilla asks flatly.

"'Bout two, three hours."

She rolls her eyes. "Did you at least catch many fish?"

Her husband shakes his head sadly. "Just a few salmon."

"Oh," Priscilla replies, struggling to keep the disappointment from her voice. She hasn't eaten all day, and a few salmon barely constitutes a snack.

Yawning, she curls back up into a ball so that Sær can't see the dissapointed look on her face. She had been napping, after all, and she doesn't want to seem ungrateful for his effort.

Sær crawls up to her, pulling a blanket over the both of them. I know what will cheer her up, he thinks.

He pokes the top of Priscilla's head.

"Excuse me, miss," he says. "Who wants da smooches?"

Priscilla blushes, curling up into herself even more.

Sær doesn't let up. "Who wants da smooches? Do you want da smooches?"

"Mmm," Priscilla mumbles, embarrassed.

"Who wants da smooches?"

"I do," Priscilla whispers.

Unsatisfied, Sær continues. "Who wants da smooches?!"

"I do," Priscilla says loudly.

"Who wants da smooches?!"

Priscilla relents. "I do! I want da smooches! I want them I want them I want them! I want da smooches!"

Satisfied, Sær darts forward, planting smooch after smooch on her face. Priscilla giggles and shrieks as her face is lavished with kisses, each one feeling as good as the last.

The smooches eventually slow, however, and Priscilla is having none of it. "I want da smooches!" She repeats. Sær renews the frenetic pace of his volley of kisses, slowing again after a minute. Priscilla repeats the chant over and over each time, and she is peppered with smooches for a quarter of an hour.

Priscilla lays back and sighs happily, her face tingling.

Sær nuzzles her face, giving her one last peck on the cheek. "Would you like some cuddles with your smooches, madam?" He asks, bowing.

Priscilla giggles. "Yes good sir, that would be splendid."

"That will be ten thousand souls."

Priscilla looks up at him questioningly.

"...Or equivalent in return-cuddles," he smirks.

Without a word, Priscilla opens her arms, and Sær wraps his own around her middle. She diligently proceeds to pay him in full, holding him tightly.

A deal is a deal, after all.


	33. The Cave

Sær and Priscilla trod through the thick forest, snapping twigs and branches that litter the forest floor. (And logs, in Priscilla's case.)

The beaten path gives way to trodden soil, which quickly gives way to a thick blanket of debris. The sturdy, pliant shoes Priscilla had bought in Majula even out her footfalls, the leather protecting her from any pesky roots planning to nab her again.

The two travel in companionable silence, the only speech to be heard a sigh or the occasional grunt of exertion. The forest floor dips and rises, and shortly after the fourth hill the rocks are no longer jagged, but hewn and smooth. Ornately carved pillars lie toppled, moss growing over the intricate engravings.

A loud hoot startles the pair, emanating from a hollow space partially covered by a crumbling statue. Sunlight glints off of Priscilla's pendant, catching the eyes of one very tired horned owl.

"Hullo," Priscilla says, waving.

The owl jerks its head back indignantly, tucking it's head under it's wing angrily.

"Are all owls this grumpy?" Priscilla whispers.

"You woke him up," Sær replies. The owl peeks it's head up.

"The ones in Ariamis were much nicer," Priscilla huffs loudly.

The owl treats her to an ear-peircing screech for her sass.

After a quick lunch of dried venison, the two set off once more. The forest slowly gives way to dense jungle, bamboo lining each side of the mossy cobblestone path. Large stone braziers light themselves as the pair approach, all at once lighting the entire path. At the end, several hundred yards down, the mouth of a cave looms tall, the stalagtites and stalagmites sticking out like teeth. The bamboo leaves shroud it in partial shade, and eyes hewn into the rock light with fire as they draw close.

The cobblestone grows cleaner, brighter, and neater the closer they get. By the time they reach the entrance of the cave, the stone is crisp and sharply angled, laid perfectly symmetrical. The braziers have freshly cut wood and kindling in them, and the bowls aren't as stained with ash.

Sær kneels down, running his hand over the newly cut stone. "This is from Darkroot Quarry," he says slowly. "This kind of stone isn't found anywhere else."

"So...?" Priscilla asks, tilting her head.

"The stone-cutter there hasn't worked in well over a hundred years, and the quarry has been closed for two hundred. There is still stone dust on it, as well," Sær says a chill running down his spine. "It's impossible, but... These are new."

The fur on Priscilla's tail bristles, her nerves thoroughly rattled.

Suddenly an eerie, ghostly moan whistles through the mouth of the cave, and Priscilla jumps back, drawing her scythe and trembling.

"It's okay, it's okay!" Sær says, his hands up in a placating gesture. "A lot of tombs have whistles carved into the rock, so potential thieves are scared off."

Priscilla stands up a little straighter. "If theives were such a worry, then that means they must have been buried with..." The pair look at each other excitedly.

"Treasure!" They cry in unison.

"Maybe they will have jewelry!" Priscilla exclaims.

"Or gilded daggers!" Sær says giddily.

"Or vases!" Priscilla adds.

"Or diamond anklets!" Sær says.

Priscilla looks at him quizzically.

"What?" Sær says defensively. "Men can wear anklets too."

Another windy groan from the mouth of the cave snaps them to attention. Without a word, the two grasp each other hand in tail and step into the cavern.

Outside, an owl hoots sadly.

The cave-crypt is hot and humid, the occasional gusts of breeze doing little to ease the pair's discomfort. Priscilla uses frost breath every so often, but even that fails to keep the oppressive moisture from clinging to their skin.

The magical braziers become few and far between, eventually becoming mere specks in the distance. Priscilla hoists her scythe up high, bathing the cave in a greenish-blue light. The glow makes her face look elegant but eerie, her face even paler in the dim rays.

They plod forth monotonously, their footsteps making a drum beat, a marching song for their journey.

Priscilla squints, struggling to make out the next brazier. She is so focused, in fact, that she fails to notice Sær calling out to her. Suddenly, she yowls in anguish as pain races through her tail and up her spine. She whips around angrily to find Sær clutching the long appendage, but before she can voice her displeasure, he points ahead.

Priscilla turns to find her feet grazing the edge of a vast chasm, so deep she can scarcely make out the bottom until Sær hurls a fireball down it. After a frighteningly long drop, the flame explodes into a flash of fire, and the pair can make out naught but sharp wooden spikes adorned with the remains of would-be trespassers.

Priscilla looks at the far edge of the chasm, sighing sadly. "I suppose we should turn back, dear," she says dejectedly.

"Not so fast, you wimpy wyvern," Sær chides. "The crypt keepers had to get around somehow, right? There has to be a way across."

Priscilla nods, surprised at her husband's foresight, and the two look around for a way across.

After half an hour of a fruitless search, the two sit upon the cold stone floor, disheartened. Suddenly, the whistling, moaning wind picks up, and the jangling of a chain echoes through the chasm. Sær stands, summoning a ball of flame in his palm and hurling it across.

The orange light glints off of a dangling rusty chain as the flame sails by. A large handle is affixed to it, and it is evident by the grimy coating that it has not been used in some time. Sær sighs dejectedly. "That's way to far. I guess we'll have to go home after all. Let's go, Priscilla."

Upon hearing no response, he whips his head around to see her walking away. Before he can catch up, however, she turns around swiftly, steps into a lunge with her rump out, tail in the air, and suddenly launches towards the chasm.

"Priscilla, wait!-"

With a short hop, Priscilla lands on both feet and launches herself through the air, letting the momentum from her sprint send her soaring. Deftly sliding her scythe from it's sheath, she hurls through the air, and the blade hooks through the handle on the chain.

Just as she begins to fall, she grabs the shaft, dangling dangerously over the daunting precipice.

A mighty groan echoes through the cave, an the walls to the hole move inward. Scraping stone shifts and rumbles before finally the two walls come together with a deep, resounding CLACK! sealing the chasm.

Priscilla gracefully slides down, unhooking her scythe and landing on the newly made bridge. She stands with her hands in front of her waist, grasping her scythe. She tries to act calm and collected, but the hopeful gleam in her eyes betrays her, showing that she is itching for praise.

Sær merely stands there, mouth agape. "Wow," he breathes. "That was... Incredible."

Priscilla beams. "Truly? You are not being sarcastic?

"No," Sær says with a wry smile. "Because you just sealed my

sar-chasm!"


	34. An Eldergleam Respite

The cave widens significantly once they cross the bridge, turning into a cavern before narrowing once more only to widen again. An occasional beam of light shoots through cracks in the ancient rock, illuminating pools of teal and blue. Vines stretch down from the roof of the cavern like grasping tendrils, and spotted about the cavern are palm trees and ferns that grow in the light. The abundance of minerals in the water cause the light to bounce and spread throughout the pools, and steam from the occasional hot spring amplifies the light even further. Glittering chunks of titanite dot the distant ceiling, twinkling like stars in the dark.

Water pours over a separate raised area where the water has carried sand and soil from the surface, only to deposit it there. Grass and ferns grow around the ground on the top of the waterfall, and the bank below is covered with swirls of white and yellow sand. Fish of all kinds swim in the clear water, from blind cave-dwellers to rainbow-scaled beauties.

"Wow," the pair breathes in unison.

The two walk along a wooden bridge of logs and hempen rope, slowly twirling to take in all the sights. The cavern is largely untouched by man, the only sign of human activity the bridge and a bottle of rum on a small isle of sand. Making their way through the sand banks and foliage, the two push through ferns and bushes, looking for a way forward.

"Let's rest," Sær suggests. "Do we have any jerky left?"

Priscilla rifles through the folds of her fur, searching through a comb, a book, some soap, a bottle, and a single glove before she pulls out the bag of jerky, handing it to Sær. Without a word she kneels down and sits on her legs, and he hops up onto her lap.

"Sho," he says through a mouthful of jerky. "What do you think we'll find?" He holds up some jerky for her.

Priscilla sniffs it, enjoying the aroma before nibbling at it. "The trap we encountered before must have cost a pretty penny. Father had looked into getting some for the archives, but the price was much too high. The inhabitants of this tomb must be very rich."

"So lots of good loot, then?"

"Lots of good loot," Priscilla agrees.

"I have to say, I'm surprised at you," Sær says.

Priscilla quirks a brow. "How so?"

Sær shrugs. "I would have thought you would be hesitant to loot a tomb. We technically aren't stealing, since they're dead, but I figured you would feel bad about it."

Priscilla tilts her head, thinking. "Normally I would, but... So many people lost their homes when Anor Londo fell. We still have not taken back the city, and everyone is forced to share tiny living quarters. It feels wrong to leave such riches in a dusty old tomb, especially seeing as no one will ever use it. That gold can help so many people."

Sær's eyes widen in surprise. To his shame, he had never even considered that option. The more he thinks on it however, the more sense it makes; Undead don't even use coins, preferring instead to use more easily obtained souls. Neither of them had much use for gold. After all Priscilla has been through, how could she still be so pure?

Sær stands up and turns around, wrapping his arms around Priscilla's neck. He holds her close, nuzzling her cheek.

"What is this for?" She asks.

"For being you," Sær replies, kissing her cheek before moving on to her lips. Priscilla flushes as their lips meet and her face is stroked. As the two kiss, Sær shifts his weight, pushing Priscilla towards the ground slightly. She obliges, laying down and resting her head on a soft patch of moss as they continue. The cavern rumbles with the echo of waterfalls and streams, as well as the soft splashes emitted by each fish that breaches the water.

A grasshopper lands next to Priscilla's face and starts chirping. She pulls away from her husband to examine it, reaching her finger out. "What is this little creature?"

"That's a grasshopper," Sær replies.

"What do they do?"

"They hop on grass, dummy."

Priscilla rolls her eyes, only to squeal in delight as the grasshopper climbs onto her finger. It chirps softly, examining the two giants before it.

If a grasshopper could look unimpressed, then this one certainly would be.

After drinking their fill from the cave's spring, the two replenish their canteens and start to head off.

"Wait a moment," Sær says. "The way forward is that way, correct?" He points to a bridge running over the stream.

"Yes. The cave goes much farther down, and is quite steep."

"Stand back, then," Sær says, pulling out a black firebomb. Before Priscilla can even respond, he lights the fuse, hurling it to the mouth of the cave.

Suddenly, the cavern is washed in firelight, and a thunderous boom reverbates throughout the clearing. The bridge collapses as bits of charred rock fly, blocking the flow of the water. The water gradually rises, soon spilling over the edge of the bank and cascading down the path to the tombs.

"Sær!" Priscilla shouts. "Now how are we supposed to continue? We'll drown!"

Sær does'nt respond, instead climbing up his wife to tickle her nose with a blade of grass. Priscilla shakes, her nose scrunching up.

"Hueh-PTHOOO!"

Ice crystals fly from her mouth as she sneezes, swirling through the air and multiplying as they come in contact with the rushing water. They multiply quickly, freezing the cascade in a chain reaction of snow and ice.

Priscilla rubs her nose, sniffling, her brow creased in anger over being used as a makeshift icebox.

Sær grins, planting a kiss on her cheek. Before she even has time to scold him, he slides down her back, smacks her on the rump and dives onto the ice, flying down the tunnel and cackling mightily.

Priscilla grumbles, gingerly sitting on the ice and sliding down after him, already planning her revenge.


End file.
